#tell me your desperate without telling me your desperate

[sincerelybubbles]

"I love you" warnings: none, fluff, written forever ago and reread and edited to shreds ||||

The first time Spencer says, "I love you," it’s an accident.

It happens in your kitchen again, but this time it's quiet. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, and the soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound between you. You're leaning against the counter, trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes, while he stands a few feet away, watching you with that careful gaze of his, the one that makes you feel like he's analyzing you but not in a clinical way. No, Spencer looks at you like he’s memorizing every tiny detail, tucking it away in some secret place in his mind where he keeps things that matter most.

You’re mid-yawn when he says it, so casual you almost miss it.

"I love you," he murmurs as he passes you a cup of coffee, like it's just something that slips out when he isn’t thinking.

Your fingers nearly fumble around the handle, and your whole body goes still. Your stomach twists in on itself, because you've thought about this moment a thousand times. How it would feel to hear it, how it would sound in his voice. You just didn't expect it like this—so offhanded, so natural, so completely without fanfare.

Spencer doesn't realize what he’s done at first. He takes a sip of his own coffee, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and in an instant, you see it—the delayed reaction, the widening of his eyes, the way his throat bobs as he swallows too hard.

"Oh," he says, like he's just processed his own words, and the air in the room shifts. "I—" He swallows again. "That wasn't—I mean, it was, but—"

You bite your lip, unsure if you should help him out of his flustered state or let him dig his own grave for another second.

"You mean it?" you ask, voice small. You hate how insecure you sound, but it’s there, that creeping uncertainty that whispers: maybe he didn’t mean to say it at all.

Spencer's hands tighten around his mug. "Yes," he says, barely above a whisper. "I mean it. But I didn’t want to say it like that. I wanted it to be special."

Warmth unfurls in your chest, battling the self-doubt that always seems to lurk just beneath the surface. You set your mug down before you drop it and step closer, reaching up to touch his cheek. His skin is warm under your fingers, and you feel him exhale, long and slow, like he’s been holding his breath.

"It is special," you tell him. "Because it's you."

Spencer lets out a soft laugh, a little self-deprecating, shaking his head. "You deserve something more than an absentminded confession over coffee."

"Stop that," you scold gently. "You always act like you have to prove something to me. You don’t. Just being with you is enough. You are enough."

His eyes flicker with something deep—something you almost can’t bear to look at because it’s so raw. He nods, absorbing your words like he’s trying to believe them, and then, after a beat, he tilts his head.

"Do you…?" He trails off, hesitant, the Spencer who still second-guesses when it comes to emotional things.

You take a breath, feeling your pulse in your throat. The truth is, you've known for a while. Maybe since the moment he showed up at your work with lunch, or when he called just to make sure he hadn’t done something to mess things up. Maybe it was the first time he kissed you, or maybe it was even before that, in the little moments where he let himself be fully himself with you.

"I love you," you say, because it’s true, and because he deserves to hear it.

Spencer blinks at you like he can’t quite believe it, and then, before you can say anything else, he kisses you. It's not hurried or desperate. It’s slow and reverent, like he’s savoring the words on your lips. His hands come up to frame your face, gentle but firm, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. "I’ve never had this before," he admits, so quiet you almost don’t hear it. "I don’t always know what I’m doing."

You smile, brushing your thumb over his cheek. "Neither do I. We’ll figure it out together."

He nods, closing his eyes for a moment, just breathing you in. And then he exhales a soft, "Okay."

It’s not a grand declaration, not fireworks or an earth-shattering moment. But it’s real. It’s steady. It’s love, spoken in small moments, in morning coffee, in nervous laughter, in the spaces between words. || you can consider this a continuation of "it's a date" if you squint.

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

Sugar, Baby

Chapter Three: Unraveling

Bruce Wayne x Sugar Baby! Reader

| Part 1 | | Part 2 |

I pinky promise there will be smut in the next part🤞 I just felt like making this one a bit of a slow burn

Taglist: @shadowqueen1322 @secretsideofbree @lillyrob

It started with nights at the manor.

At first, it was just a casual thing—Bruce would send a car, and you’d spend an evening talking over expensive whiskey, letting the world outside the Wayne estate fade into irrelevance. You still worked at the bar, still went to class, but somehow, Bruce had become a fixture in your life.

And it wasn’t just the money.

Yes, he still tipped you ridiculous amounts when he showed up at the bar. Yes, the black card he’d given you sat in your wallet, burning a hole you had yet to fill. But more than that, he was there.

The texts started coming more frequently.

B: You still alive?

You: Barely. My professor is trying to kill me with this assignment.

B: Send me the prompt. I’ll have my team handle it.

You: Absolutely not.

B: I don’t like seeing you stressed.

You: And I don’t like billionaire academic fraud.

B: Fair point.

He called, too—not often, but enough that you found yourself waiting for the sound of his voice on the other end of the line.

The nights at the manor got longer.

At first, it was just drinks and conversation, but then there were the quiet dinners Alfred started preparing for two instead of one. The slow walks through the grand halls of the estate, the firelit nights spent sprawled on the couch in the library, his arm slung lazily over the backrest behind you.

And then, of course, there were the kisses.

God, the kisses.

They started slow, teasing, an extension of whatever sharp-witted conversation you’d been having before he inevitably leaned in. Bruce kissed with purpose, with intent, with the kind of control that made you dizzy.

But that’s all it was.

Kissing.

He never pushed, never let things go further than you could handle, and part of you wondered if he knew.

If he had already pieced together that you had never done this before.

Not this—not just the kisses, but the way he made you feel.

Because it wasn’t just physical.

Bruce knew you.

He listened when you ranted about your classes, when you muttered about your deadlines, when you offhandedly mentioned your favorite books or movies. He remembered, too—casually dropping facts about your life into conversation, surprising you with small gestures that proved he had been paying attention.

“Tell me something real,” you murmured one night, curled up next to him on the oversized couch in his study.

Bruce glanced down at you, brow raising slightly. “Something real?”

You nodded. “Something not in the tabloids.”

He was silent for a moment, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your knee.

“I never sleep for more than three hours at a time,” he admitted finally. “It’s been that way since I was a kid.”

You frowned, shifting to get a better look at him. “Why?”

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through his expression. “You know why.”

You did.

Gotham knew the story of Thomas and Martha Wayne—the billionaire philanthropists gunned down in an alley, the grieving son left behind.

“I dream about them,” Bruce continued, voice quieter now. “Not always in the way you’d think. Sometimes it’s just… glimpses. My mother’s perfume. My father’s laugh. I wake up before I can hold onto any of it.”

Your chest tightened.

You reached for his hand without thinking, threading your fingers through his. Bruce blinked, as if surprised, before his grip tightened around yours.

He didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, rubbing a slow, deliberate pattern over your knuckles. “I just—”

“I’m glad you told me,” you interrupted softly.

He exhaled, eyes flickering toward your lips.

That night, the kisses were softer.

Not urgent. Not desperate. Just there.

Something real.

—

It was a few weeks later when you finally asked.

You were sitting in Bruce’s bedroom—an indulgently large space that still somehow felt distinctly him. There was a fireplace crackling in the corner, the low golden light casting shadows across the room.

Bruce was on the bed beside you, leaning against the headboard, sleeves rolled up as he scrolled through something on his phone. You had a book open in your lap, though you weren’t really reading it.

Instead, you were watching him.

“Bruce.”

He glanced up at the sound of your voice. “Mm?”

You hesitated. “Are you… waiting for something?”

He set his phone down, eyes scanning your face. “What do you mean?”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the book. “I mean, we’ve been… this for a while now.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “This?”

You rolled your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he admitted.

You exhaled. “So, are you waiting? For me?”

His expression shifted, something fond passing through his features.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Your stomach flipped. “Why?”

Bruce sat up, moving closer. One of his hands found your knee, fingers brushing against the fabric of your leggings.

“Because I know you,” he said, voice low. “I know you wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t real for you.”

You swallowed hard. “And?”

His thumb traced slow circles against your leg.

“And I want to take my time with you.”

You felt yourself flush, warmth spreading through your body at the implication.

Bruce smirked slightly, tilting your chin up with the crook of his finger.

“You deserve more than rushed decisions,” he murmured. “I don’t need more. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.”

You inhaled sharply. “I—”

His lips brushed against yours, soft and coaxing.

“Don’t overthink it,” he whispered against your mouth.

And for once, you didn’t.

—

It didn’t happen that night.

Or the next.

Or the one after that.

But somehow, the waiting didn’t feel like waiting.

Masterlist

[vershautece]

you and lu watching your own sex tape together :)

the two of you are cuddling in bed - you’re watching a movie curled into lu’s chest, legs entangled in his, while he scrolls through his phone, playing with your hair absentmindedly and pressing soft kisses to your forehead. there’s comfortable silence between you for a while as the movie plays, and you’re starting to fall asleep so you’re not really paying attention to it. you move down his body a little to lie completely on him, head nuzzled into his neck. your eyes start to flutter shut, so content in the moment when suddenly you feel lu’s erection against you. you shift a little against him, seeing if he reacts, and you hear his breath hitch and his clothed cock harden even more. he’s still on his phone, and you sit up on his thigh, wrapping your arms around his neck and looking over at his phone to see what he’s looking at. before you manage to get a look at his screen, he turns to look at you with a teasing smile. ‘just going through my camera roll, beautiful’ he kisses your forehead. ‘every picture i have of you is perfect. you’re so pretty’

‘mm, baby’ you kiss his cheek, moving your hands to his curls. ‘i felt you getting hard under me’ you giggle, and he smirks at you in response, before going back to scrolling through the pictures. his camera roll is basically just you and pictures of his travels - he takes pictures of you whenever he thinks you look cute and sometimes when you’re not looking; he’s got pictures saved that you’ve taken yourself and sent him, and he’s got so many pics and videos of you on your knees for him, of him pounding you into the mattress, of you riding him, for those times when he can’t be around you and needs to see you. of course you’re right next to him now, and he didn’t mean to get hard but he was sorting through his camera roll and ended up lingering too long on certain pictures.

you watch as he scrolls through a few photos of you on holiday in mexico, and you’re blushing at what he says to you. ‘you looked so beautiful in this dress, bambina, i couldn’t take my eyes off you that night. always so perfect.’ and then he scrolls to the next photo, of you guys that same night a few hours later, with his thumb in your mouth while he’s above you in missionary. you choke out a gasp, forgetting he had that picture, and you start to feel your panties dampen because you’ve been sitting on his thigh for a couple minutes at this point and now you’re desperate for his fingers in your mouth. he bites his lip gazing at the picture, a slight smirk evident on his face again. ‘baby - so pretty f’me looking up at me like that. bellissima’ he kisses your cheek, and scrolls again. it’s a video in your hotel room, 20 mins long, and you remember the sex tape you both made that night. you’ve made a handful of them together, including two that went on for several hours, but you’ve never actually watched one back. luigi has, because they’re on his phone and he watches them when you’re away - he hates porn, instead using these videos of you as a healthy alternative to get off.

‘remember this night?’ he looks at you with those pretty hazel eyes, before kissing your nose softly. ‘i love this video, it’s my favorite of us’ he moves his arm around your waist, his thumb rubbing softly on your hip as you start to squirm on his thigh. ‘i’ve never seen it’ you reply, keeping your eyes on the screen as he presses play. ‘i know - you can watch yourself now, beautiful’ he tells you softly.

in the video, the camera is set up to get the perfect view of luigi on top of you while you make out. you’re wearing a tight mini dress, boobs spilling out because he’s pushing your dress down from your chest while he kisses you. watching this, you instinctively open your legs a little on his thigh, rocking on him without even thinking. too fixated on the video, you don’t see how he smirks at the feeling of your slight movement on him, but you do feel him grip your waist tighter. ‘look at your pretty tits, my love, hm’

‘i remember this night so well’ you say, but it comes out almost as a whine as you start to rock your hips on his thigh. ‘yeah, you do? me too, baby, i’m so glad i have it all recorded’ he looks at you, and then a teasing smile forms on his face. ‘mm, you okay, princess? you trying to get off on my thigh, huh?’

all you can do in response is let out a soft moan, and your hands around his neck move to his curls; you’re still moving slowly on his thigh in your tiny shorts as the two of you watch luigi grip and knead your breasts in the video. you start to knead one of your breasts while you watch, and you look down to see how impossibly hard luigi is right now, only turning you on more. he looks back at you: ‘you getting wet watching your pretty tits get played with, hm?’ & you nod, biting your lip as you move a little faster. ‘you need something, dolcezza? yeah?’ his eye contact is insane, and you nod, then respond: ‘mmm, baby, want you to make me feel good’

‘yeah, the way i do in the video, baby?’ he speaks so softly to you, and you can’t ignore the teasing glint in his eye. ‘carry on watching yourself, and you can tell me exactly what you want me to do for you, okay?’

you whine in response, as the video shows luigi, still on top of you, start to play with your clit as he sucks and massages your boobs. you’re both naked now, and the camera angle showing luigi’s muscular back and side profile is too much for you to handle. you can’t take the sexual frustration anymore, so you slip your hand into your panties under your shorts, and start rubbing your clit. luigi is transfixed on the video, hand starting to palm his cock through his boxers, but of course he notices your moans getting louder from beside him and he turns to look at you. the sight of you pleasuring yourself on his thigh sends a rush through his member, and he grips it tighter, while his brows raise at you in amusement. ‘i told you to tell me what you wanted, baby. take your hand out of your panties, if you wanted me to play with that pretty clit you could’ve asked me, my love.’ you whine as you remove your hand, the loss of contact frustrating you like hell, and you’re getting even more soaked as you watch him palm himself through his boxers while he looks at you. in the video your soft moans and his quiet grunts against you are getting louder, and you’re so desperate for him now.

‘cmon, what do you want from me, dolcezza? tell me’ as he speaks he turns his gaze back to the screen again to tease you, pulling his cock out of his boxers. you’re a whiny slut on his thigh, letting out a desperate gasp at the sight of his fully erect member. his hand slowly moves up and down the shaft as he bites his lip, watching how his fingers begin to slip down from your clit into your entrance in the video.

‘want you to play with my clit, lu, want your fingers inside me’ you moan, all you can do is continue rocking yourself on his thigh because he won’t let you do anything else - he knows he can pleasure you way better than anything you could do for yourself. he smirks at your words, pumping his shaft faster as he continues watching the video, where you’re now moaning his name loud, back arched as he fucks you with his fingers.

‘yeah, you want this right now, huh?’ he asks you, a soft moan escaping his throat. ‘mm, luigi, don’t tease me, god, you know i need you’ you’re getting so restless just straddling his thigh, riding it pathetically in your soaked panties and your frustratingly tight shorts while you wait for him to give you what you need. ‘i’ll give it to you, baby, i know. take your shorts off and push your panties to the side for me’

you breathe a sigh of relief that he’s ending the teasing, and you move off his thigh to take off your shorts, before you quickly begin pulling down your panties. as soon as you try to, he stops you by gripping your thigh, looking at you with those pretty bedroom eyes. his hand slows on his cock a little but still maintains a steady pace. ‘i said push ‘em to the side, baby, don’t take them off’ he speaks to you so softly; he’s telling you what to do but in that same honeyed voice he always speaks to you in, and you’ll do whatever he says. ‘they’re soaked, lu’ you say, put you pull them back up and push them to the side like he asked. ‘yeah i know princess, i can see from here, that’s why i want them on, okay?’ his gaze on you is insane, and you feel your wetness start to spread down to your inner thighs. ‘sit against my chest, dolcezza’ he says, caressing your thigh softly with his thumb before you move over to sit in between his legs, back pressed against his chest. you sigh in content as you lean back on him, anticipating how good he’s about to make you feel. it’s difficult to act normal though, when you can feel his 7 inch cock pressed up against your lower back. he smacks it against you a couple times and you giggle, rocking your hips instinctively. ‘luigi, stop messing with me, need your fingers’ you grab his wrist on the hand that isn’t holding his phone, and you drag it to your clit. you feel him laugh softly behind you, and he leans forward a little to whisper in your ear: ‘so desperate f’me, hm? gonna give you everything you need, baby, i’m gonna make you cum, don’t worry. just watch yourself on the screen while i get you there, okay?’ he taps your clit suddenly, and you jolt at the feeling, before leaning back onto him comfortably as his fore and middle finger start to draw slow circles. ‘that’s it baby, just relax, and keep those pretty eyes on the screen, mhm’ he continues whispering in your ear, pressing soft kisses and bites on your neck and earlobe. you’re moaning quietly in content, your hand drifting upwards underneath your tank top to knead one of your breasts. he starts giving you a running commentary on the sex tape: ‘see how beautiful you are underneath me? while i’m fingering that pretty pussy, getting you so close to the edge - yeah, baby, so beautiful for me’

his fingers start to work faster, sliding up and down your slit to collect more of your wetness, and the feeling of his hard cock pressed against your back with his soft moans is literal heaven. the video would be enough to make you cum on your own, but resting against your man as he pleasures you and praises you while you both watch your own sex tape feels surreal. he’s moaning directly in your ear: ‘you’re so wet - fuck, you smell amazing, baby - you’ve soaked my favourite panties’

he moves the phone to rest against a pillow in front of you both so that he can make use of his other hand, to pull down your tank top and replace your own hand with his, kneading one breast at a time. you’re moaning louder than you’d like to admit at this point, your eyes shut, back arched against his chest as you rock against the sheets. you reach up to grip his bicep as the pleasure increases, and each time he looks down at you and notices your eyes are shut, he gently pushes your face back to watch the phone screen, tongue pressed to the side of his cheek in frustration that you keep looking away. you can’t help it though, you’re feeling so dizzy already from just his fingers on your clit. you’re leaking all over his hand, and you don’t know if he’s aware you can feel his precum also leaking onto your back.

in the video he’s taking his fingers out of you and moving you closer to the camera by your legs as you both giggle, and you’re squealing underneath him, drunk from the many cocktails you’d consumed that night at the bar. he slaps his cock on your pussy a few times, sliding it over your clit to tease you, and the camera gets the perfect angle. luigi has seen this video a million times over, meaning he knows exactly how it goes, so the second he’s slapping your pussy with his cock in the video, he surprises you with a sudden slap to your clit while you watch. ‘oooh my god, fuck’ you moan out so loud at the shock, and grip his bicep tighter. in the video he starts to guide his cock into you, and your gaze flicks between his huge size slowly pushing into you and the look on your own face as you struggle to adjust. as you both watch, lu starts whispering in your ear again: ‘you watching how my cock slides into that tight pussy, hm?’ ‘mhmmm’ you moan in response. ‘let me stroke your cock, lu, i wanna get you off at the same time.’ you feel his dimples widen against your neck, and he moves you to sit next to him, both of you against the headboard. he’s fucking you now in the sex tape, so deep in missionary, your legs wrapped around his waist as you scream - you know you pissed off a lot of people in the hotel that night.

now that you’re both sat up, you immediately reach for his cock, wrapping your fingers around his shaft without another second to waste. ‘you wanna feel my cock, baby, yeah?’ he shoots you that teasing smile. ‘let me carry on working that pussy, c’mere’ he grabs your thigh and moves it across his so you’re as close as possible, and wastes no time in slipping in a finger, while his thumb pleasures your clit. ‘oh, fuck baby, yes’ you moan out, gripping his cock tighter as your hand moves quicker on his shaft. ‘oh, fuck, that’s it baby girl, pump up and down for me, so good.’ you adore his moans, not only are you obsessed with the feel of his hard cock in your hands but those soft whiny moans he lets out are so beautiful that you could probably cum from the sound of them alone. you love that only you can get this reaction out of him, only you will hear those angelic sounds in your bedroom. nevertheless, he still tries his hardest not to end up a complete moaning mess for you, wanting to stay in control but he ends up like this for you every time. ‘baby, fuck - your nails look pretty, i like that colour’

‘yeah, lu? thank you for paying for them, i love you, mm’ you try to respond through strangled moans, and he slips in another finger without warning. he’s skilfully thrusting and curling upward two fingers into your pussy, thumb still rubbing your clit. it amazes you every time how skilled he is, so undone for you as you work his cock but able to pleasure you with so much precision at the same time, never slowing the pace. you’re both still fixed on the video, where luigi is on top pounding you into the mattress, your tits bouncing underneath him.

he continues with his commentary on the video as you pleasure each other: ‘look how gorgeous you are, hmm, so pretty underneath me’

‘cum for me, bella ragazza’ his fingers are thrusting into you at an insane pace, and the movement of your hand on his cock slows down because the pleasure is too distracting. you’re so dizzy, rocking against the sheets as you reach your release, and luigi stops watching the video to watch you cum for him. ‘that’s it, baby girl, get it all over my fingers, cmon’ his mouth is open, gazing at you intently as you moan for him. ‘oh, luigi, fuck i’m gonna cum, ohh baby i can’t-’ and then you scream, as you squirt all over his hand and the sheets beneath you. luigi chokes out a shocked laugh, slowing the pace of his fingers to bring you down from your high. ‘fuck baby, i know i’m good but i wasn’t doing anything different tonight’ he laughs. you’re blushing at him, breathless as you try to pick up the pace on his cock again. the sheets are completely soaked underneath you on the side of the bed luigi usually sleeps, but of course he won’t mind, and he slides his fingers up and down your pussy to spread your juices, before bringing both fingers to your lips. ‘open’ he orders, and you open your mouth to taste your release. his dark eyes watch you intently, and as he removes his fingers you remember you’re supposed to be helping him cum. ‘lu, i’m sorry, let me suck you off, i got distracted’ you move between his thighs, immediately taking his leaking cock into your mouth. ‘oh i know, princess. sorry for distracting you’ he winks, shooting you a teasing smile that fades the second you start to kitten lick his tip. ‘oh just like that, dolcezza, mm’ his whiny moans get louder again, and he tightens his hand in your hair to create a makeshift ponytail, caressing your cheek with the thumb of his other hand. ‘that’s my girl, so pretty with my cock in your mouth.’ you try your best to deepthroat him but it’s impossible, so you work your hand on the rest of him that you can’t fit in your mouth. the sound of you gagging on his cock is bringing him so close to his release, and he starts to buck his hips up into your throat, but slows down a little as soon as he realises he might be going a little too rough. you look up at him with doe eyes, mascara running, watching his pretty face as he gets close. the way you look right now, gazing up at him while gagging on his cock is like something out of a porn video, and luigi knows that’s enough to make him come undone. ‘oh I’m so close, beautiful, fuck, that’s a good girl, make me cum, oh i’m gonna-’ he cuts off his whines with a guttural groan, as his hot cum shoots down your throat. you swallow it all, and give his tip a couple of kisses as you bat your lashes up at him.

‘you like that, lu?’

‘i don’t know what i’d do without you, beautiful girl.’

[mameillieureennemie]

Have you ever seen that strap-on harness that’s meant to fit on top of a boot/shoe? If so, would you ever see Sevika or Vi using it on reader?

it's funny you sent this because i saw a post about this very harness. except someone had also modified it, so it'd have a hitachi vibrator attached to it. so when i saw this ask, i was like "whoooa, that's pretty coincidental!"

18+ minors go away.

sevika × afab!reader

cw: dominant!sevika, sub!bratty!reader

i see sevika using it more than vi, primarily because it gives off more sevika vibes to me, personally. i could potentially see vi using it, but it'd have to be a particular situation; like when vi's feeling very dominant.

sevika would have that harness for when she has to work, and you need her. but you're being bratty, very disobedient, and refusing to listen when she tells you, "not now, baby, i need to finish this paperwork."

so when you're finally tapdancing on her last nerve, she snaps, grips you by the chin, and says, "go get it," in a growl that never fails to have you whimpering. you know her patience's finished, that her tolerance for you has disappeared, so you obey with hurried steps and your heart threatening to burst from your chest.

when you arrive back, she doesn't even look at you. all she does is point down at her boot, and you move without a word. you strap on the harness with shaky fingers, anticipation racing through you, and make sure it's secure. then you're sitting back on heels of your feet, anxiously waiting for sevika to give you the go ahead.

she doesn't—for a long while.

she leaves you squirming, panties getting thoroughly soaked, as you try not to step out of line. your eyes dart between the silicone on sevika's boot and sevika's face, which remains unbothered as she completes her paperwork. it gets to a point where tears are prickling at the corners of your eyes, your frustration building with your arousal as it becomes unbearable.

you're about to break, about to tear away from your obedience, so you can fill up the painful ache between your legs. you're about to move when sevika finally looks at you, stares blankly, before a soft coo falls from her lips.

"look at my baby," she murmurs, mocking. "is she all pent up? is her slutty needy cunt in need of something?"

you fidget, cheeks burning, as you stare up at her through your lashes. all embarrassed, all desperate and on the edge of losing it completely.

"no answer?" sevika asks, pierced eyebrow raised. "oh well, i guess someone doesn't need this then." she gestures to the strap on her boot. "take it off."

"no, wait!" you suddenly cry out, reaching out with slightly trembling hands. "i...i need it..." you say softly, hands falling to her thigh because you need to feel her in some capacity. "need it, vika...please."

"what do you need, baby?"

"...need your strap in my...slutty needy cunt."

sevika's smile is sharp and deadly, the boot with the harness tapping a taunting rhythm.

"get on, then." she says—no, commands, and you're suddenly scrambling.

you don't even take the time to remove your panties.

you just shove them to the side before you mount sevika's leg and sink down.

[dumbbitchgalore]

Old Man!Price with an equally Insane!Reader as him 🧚‍♀️✨

TW: Slight mention of faux miscarriage (honestly not that bad imo)

Price is a quiet man, a cautious and calculating man. Every action, thought and plan ever conjured in his sick mind has always been well thought out.

Even when he decided to cheat on his wife of 20 years with you, he thought everything. John chooses the right moments to cheat on his wife, strictly following his wife's schedule allowing him to sneak away without suspicion. He uses burner phones, makes reservations under fake names, hell John will even have a separate car to pick you up to drive you to motels and dinner dates. 

He’s a sneaky bastard that's for sure but cheating wasn’t his mistake. It was the mistake of cheating on his wife with you. 

The moment you found out that you were his mistress, you decided to take things slow. You never made John realise that you’ve found out the truth, letting him enjoy your body to the fullest as you stayed in blissful ignorance. 

Nights when John came to you became even more extravagant. Lingerie becomes more sensual, more for his taste. You take up the role of ‘wife’, fulfilling each aspect of John’s marriage that his actual wife lacked in satisfying. 

You’d cook him home-cooked meals, re-filled his beer for him, sucked his cock exceptionally well while he watched the footy match on TV. You let me fuck you, fill you up with his cum. You submit, willingly accepting all his flaws that John’s wife would nag him about. 

You became John’s ‘perfect little wife’. Not to mention you were younger, hotter and more lively- according to his words. 

His sense of security and trust bloomed for you and now it was time to break it. 

You find his address and go to his house when his wife opens the door and you happen to be looking for John. 

His wife gives you a weird look.

“Oh, I’m John’s girlfriend, well actually-” You smile at the Missus patting your belly. “Hopefully ‘wife’ once I tell him about the little babe. And, you must be… his sister?”

You were fucking with her. You knew John didn’t have a sister but oh God, did you love how huffy and puffy the Missus looked. You feign a look for confusion as you tilt your head to the side. 

The Missus slams the door in your face and not a minute later, shouting erupts from inside of the house . Booming voices of the missus and John reverberated through the walls and is carried outside but the wind. 

All you do is simply get into your car and drive home. 

A few hours later in the dead of night, aggressive knocking can be heard on your apartment front door, you go to open it only to be met with a fuming John. Without even acknowledging you, he forces himself inside your flat as he paces around shouting and yelling at you as if you were the problem.

Once again you feign ignorance, walking up to him and hugging him from behind to still his movements while you nuzzle your face into his flannel clothed back. 

“I didn’t know, John. It was an honest mistake. I just… I needed to see you…” You whisper against his shirt, a sniffle follows. 

John sighs, a hint of resignation in his voice. “Is it true… are you…” his voice begins to shake.

You turn him around to face him, tilting your head up to look into John’s cerulean eyes as you give him a slow nod. 

“I didn’t mean to, John. I swear it just-” Your pleas were swallowed by John’s hungry kisses, desperation creeps into them as he tries to find any faults in your words. Alas, he couldn’t.

You kissed him back with the same fervour as he’s shown you clinging into his shirt and John makes his mind up right there. He was going to leave his wife and John was going to take care of you and the baby and this time he was going to do everything right. 

The following week, John files for divorce. A few months later, just as John and his Missus’ annulment was finalised, you just happened to have a miscarriage. 

There was no turning back from this now. John could go back to his wife as if she’d take him back but his one reason for committing to you was now gone. 

Oh well, not like the pregnancy was real anyway.

[multific]

A Love Worth Defying an Empire

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: As Emperor, Geta rules with a cold heart, trusting no one in a court full of betrayal. But when you are accused of treason, something in him breaks. In between power and love, Geta has to make a decision.

The halls of the imperial palace were cold, carved from marble that shined under the dim light of torches.

The scent of burning incense lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of spilt wine and whispered betrayals.

Rome was always alive, but inside the palace walls, the heart of the empire was filled with treachery.

And you were caught in the middle of it.

You stood before the Emperor’s throne, your hands bound together.

The accusation had been whispered into Geta’s ear by men.

Men who lied.

Men who thought could do anything they pleased.

Treason.

A word that could have you executed before the sunset.

The guards gripped your arms, but your eyes remained on him.

Geta sat high above you, dressed in deep crimson, he looked like a true Emperor because he was.

His brother wasn't informed of what was happening. Caracalla was in his room, hidden from all of this.

Geta's expression was unreadable, his jaw tight.

You knew him.

You knew the way his mind worked, the weight pressing upon him.

But did he know you?

Truly know you enough to see through this lie?

“Tell me,” he finally spoke, his voice sharp. “Do you deny it?”

Your heart pounded but you only spoke the truth. “I do.”

“And yet, here you stand, accused by men with no reason to lie.”

“No reason?” You wanted to laugh, you almost did. “They have every reason. They fear how much you trust me.”

The court gasped at your words, but Geta… Geta did not move.

Only a single muscle ticked in his jaw.

“I would not be so foolish as to trust blindly.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you whispered. “They know I have your ear. They know you listen when I speak.”

Perhaps you had more than just his ear. But the court didn't need to know that. You didn't want to confirm any of their suspicions.

A simple servant is all you were. You have been accused many times to be in love with the Emperor. You deny everything. Yet they all know.

But now, this wasn't the man you fell in love with. This was the Emperor.

And then Geta stood up.

Silence.

The room stood still as he walked from his throne, his steps slow and deliberate.

The guards at your side straightened, but he gave them a single look, and they released you.

You exhaled, rubbing your wrists as he came to stand close to you.

“If I have made a mistake in trusting you…” he said quietly, though his voice was sharper than a blade, “I will not hesitate to correct it.”

You held his gaze. “And if you haven’t?”

His fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to reach for you. “Then I will have to kill the men who speak against you.”

You swallowed. “Then you know what must be done.”

His breath was unsteady, just for a moment. And then, without another word, he turned back to the court.

“Leave,” Geta commanded. “All of you.”

The senators, guards, and servants scrambled to obey, whispering amongst themselves as they hurried from the hall.

You remained still, watching Geta, waiting.

When the last man was gone, the doors shut with a heavy echo.

And then, finally, Geta turned back to you, his mask of power falling, shattering.

His hands came up, gripping your face with desperation. “I cannot lose you. I have spent my life surrounded by deceit, by hunger for power, by hands that reach for our throne while I sleep,” he murmured. “You are the only thing that is mine. If they had taken you from me…” He shut his eyes, his grip tightening. “I would have burned this city to the ground. Please tell me it is not true, please tell me every word is a lie.”

Tears filled your eyes. “I never betrayed you, I love you.” you reached out to him, keeping your hands on his. Hoping to ease his pain.

His thumb traced your cheek. “I know. But they will pay.” when his eyes opened, they were filled with determination.

You knew what that meant.

Blood would stain his hands before the night ended.

You should have feared it, but you didn’t.

Because this was his way of showing you love.

Love, in a world where power meant everything and tenderness, was a rare thing.

Love, for which he was ready to murder senators.

A simple servant is all you were. Cared for him through the hardest times, but fell in love with the Emperor.

Love, for which you were ready to die. But not like this, not by his hands due to a lie.

You leaned into his touch. “And what will happen to me?”

His forehead rested against yours. “You stay.”

A promise, an order, a plea.

Your fingers tugged the fabric of his tunic. “Always.”

He let out a shaky breath of relief.

And then he kissed you.

Not in the way an Emperor should, but as a man desperate for the one thing that made him human.

And in that moment, the throne meant nothing.

There was only you.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[cosmicmunsonwrites]

LOVE mean!rafe and desperate!reader i need more where they finally become official if they ever do

but i’ll do anything for you

mean!rafe cameron x desperate!fem!reader

cw — mdni, p in v, cockwarming, rafe gets softer

summary — after rafe finally starts developing feelings, he decides to take whatever they have to the next level.

authors note — this can be read as a standalone but is essentially a part 2 to “i just wanna be one of your girls.” please request more!! they motivate me so much more than just free writing. should i keep adding to this series too??

do not copy or post my work anywhere else.

“tell me you’re mine,” rafe demanded as his big rough hands kneaded the soft fat of your ass. his blue eyes glared into yours while he waited expectantly for your reply.

you moaned quietly when your hips rolled into his and his tip pressed up against your cervix in the most delicious way. “i’m yours, rafe,” you replied excitedly and eagerly. “i’ve always been yours.”

he nodded with a satisfied grin on his face. “good,” he mumbled before leaning forward to kiss you. your hands moved from his shoulders to his jaw as you pressed further into him. he thought the passion you poured into his lips was cute.

when you pulled away breathlessly with kiss-bitten lips, you frowned slightly with tears brimming in your waterline. “but are you mine?” you asked hesitantly. your face was quiet and scared, entirely expecting his answer to disappoint you like it always did.

he thought for a quick second. you were fucking gorgeous, you listened to everything he said, you did everything he asked, and you were completely obsessed with him. what else could he want? “I’m yours,” he whispered against your lips before kissing you again.

his hands moved underneath your ass to slowly lift you up and quickly slam you back down on his length. you whimpered into his mouth, leaving enough room for him to slip his tongue inside and get you feeling all dizzy.

he began to roll your hips into his own, your clit dragging against his pubic bone and the movement allowing you to feel every vein of his cock. tears began to slip down your cheeks. he fucking loved how sensitive you were.

“can’t take it, rafe,” you muttered against his pink lips. you panted as your walls spasmed around him and tried to push him out. “you’re too big.”

he could’ve swore he’d just fallen in love with you again. “move in with me,” he blurted out. he didn’t even have time to think about the words leaving his mouth. he just knew he needed to keep you safe and locked away where no one could snap you out of your little dream.

you nodded almost instantly. even with glossy eyes and tears staining your cheeks, you smiled bigger than ever. “i want that,” you said happily. he grinned and leaned back against the sofa, allowing you to move at your own pace and do whatever you needed for yourself. “rafe?”

“what?” he asked. there was almost a hint of irritation in his voice knowing that there was more than likely another question coming his way.

you wiped your tears and replaced your hands on his shoulders, trying to ignore the way his cock was impaling you. “does this mean we’re, like, exclusive?” you asked hopefully.

he internally rolled his eyes at that. was that really a question? he though it was pretty self-explanatory. he began to think he’d fucked you stupid already without even doing much. “sure,” he said.

you squealed giddily and hugged him tight. he almost began to question what he’d just gotten himself into.

[becertainlust]

RUNNING WATER | Trafalgar Law

synopsis: beware of water and women, or don't. we don't care. {AS}

content: smut.

The bathroom was bathed in a soft, golden glow, the dim light casting shifting shadows along the tiled walls. Steam curled in the air, thick and hazy, as water splashed onto the floor, mingling with the uneven breaths you and Law shared. The steady hiss of the shower muffled the quiet, broken sounds slipping from your lips—pleas, sighs, his name whispered like a prayer.

His hands, warm and sure, cradled your face before capturing your lips in a slow, all-consuming kiss. His touch was firm yet deliberate, guiding you back until your spine met the cool tile. A shiver ran through you at the contrast—heat pressing against your front, cold seeping into your back—though whether it was from the temperature or the way his body melded into yours, you couldn’t tell.

Water cascaded over you both, sliding down the inked lines of his tattoos, vanishing into the ridges of muscle flexing beneath your touch. He held you there for a moment, his surreal amber eyes locked onto yours—dark, unreadable, as if he were studying you, memorizing every reaction before you could even voice them. Then, without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck.

The first kiss was slow, deliberate. Then another. And another. Open-mouthed, lingering, his breath hot against your skin, sending a wave of heat pooling low in your stomach. Your own breath stuttered, heavy in your ears, the weight of his presence fogging your mind until all that existed was him.

His breath ghosted over sensitive skin, trailing fire in its wake. Water streamed down his body, carrying the scent of soap and something distinctly him—intoxicating. Your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails pressing into damp skin as he worked his way along the curve of your throat, teasing, tasting, savoring.

Law exhaled softly, feeling the slight tremble that ran through you. His hands tightened at your waist. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice thick with something unreadable. His lips curled slightly against your skin, amusement or satisfaction threading through his tone.

You swallowed, tilting your head back against the cool tile, the contrast making your senses spin. “Maybe it’s the water,” you offered weakly, but you both knew better.

His chuckle rumbled against your collarbone. “Maybe.” His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along your waist, dragging over slick skin, testing just how much you could take before anticipation unraveled you completely.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he pulled back just enough to look at you. Droplets clung to his lashes, warm amber eyes darkened, intense. A silent challenge burned within them. “Or maybe,” he mused, tilting his head slightly, “you just can’t handle it.”

The words sent heat curling low in your stomach, your pulse hammering in response. You parted your lips to retort, but whatever you meant to say was swallowed by his mouth crashing into yours—breath-stealing, dizzying, drowning you in him.

His hands slid lower, gliding over slick skin, tracing every curve with aching precision. Then, with a teasing drag, he dipped lower still, fingers brushing over the sensitive bundle of nerves. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through you, a choked moan slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

A low groan rumbled in his chest at the sound, his grip on you tightening. Your body betrayed you, pressing into him, seeking more, craving the fire he stoked with such agonizing control.

“Hold onto me,” he murmured, voice rough, barely audible over the sound of water cascading around you.

You barely had time to register his words before his fingers pressed deep, sinking into you with slow, calculated intent. The sensation sent a shudder rippling through your body, a gasp tearing from your lips. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around him, nails dragging lightly over his back, desperate to ground yourself against the storm of sensation.

Law groaned at the way you clung to him, the sound vibrating through his chest, through you. Your forehead dropped against his shoulder, breathless and burning, shyness and need tangling as you fought for control—but it was a losing battle.

His fingers moved deliberately, expertly, coaxing you into unraveling piece by piece. Every touch was sharper, more intense, sending you spiraling deeper into him, into the heat, the pleasure, the overwhelming rush of sensation.

You melted against him, your body responding without thought, hips rolling subtly into his touch. He felt it—the way you chased the pleasure he offered, the way you trembled under his hands. His lips ghosted against your temple, smirking as he took in every reaction.

A whimper escaped as he curled his fingers just right, pleasure sparking behind your eyelids. You brought his face up, capturing his lips in another desperate kiss, moaning softly into his mouth as he quickened his pace.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut as a wave of heat surged through you. The evidence of his effect on you was undeniable, written in the way your body responded, the way you melted into him completely.

Law hummed against your lips, satisfaction threading through his voice. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice dark, coaxing. His fingers didn’t stop, didn’t slow—only pushed you further, drawing you closer to the inevitable edge, where only he existed.

Your moan was swallowed by his mouth as he captured your lips, deep and claiming, swallowing every sound, every plea.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm, teasing. His thumb circled slow, deliberate, making your thighs twitch, making it impossible to think of anything but the way he was playing your body like he already knew every weakness, every button to push.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched your lashes flutter, the way your body pressed into him, chasing the pleasure he dangled just out of reach. “Tell me,” he murmured, voice deep, laced with dark amusement. “What do you want?”

Your fingers dug into his skin, a frustrated whimper escaping before you could stop it. He knew exactly what he was doing—testing you, pushing you.

“Law—” Your voice wavered, half-plea, half-warning.

His lips brushed your ear, his free hand sliding up, fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head back just enough for his mouth to ghost over your throat. “Use your words.”

The teasing lilt in his voice sent a fresh wave of heat curling through your stomach. His fingers didn’t stop their torment, slow and steady, just enough to keep you trembling on the edge without letting you fall.

You swallowed hard, pride and need warring as your nails dragged over his skin. “More,” you finally breathed, voice hushed, raw.

Law hummed in approval, rewarding your answer with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers, pressing deeper, curling just right, wringing a desperate moan from your lips. “That’s better,” he praised, voice thick, satisfied.

Your back arched, body pressing fully against his, every inch of you attuned to his touch, his pace—slow, calculated, dragging out every second like he had all the time in the world. The teasing was unbearable, the pressure inside you coiling tighter, sharper, until you were trembling against him.

Your hands clutched at him, desperation seeping into every movement, every gasp. His name slipped past your lips like a confession, and Law groaned at the sound, at the way you said it.

His free hand slid down, gripping your thigh, guiding your leg up around his waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His fingers pressed deeper, faster, chasing that spot that made you shudder, that had your nails raking down his back as pleasure crashed over you in waves.

The tension snapped. A sharp, helpless cry spilled from your lips as you shattered against him, body trembling, breath stolen. He held you through it, hand firm against your thigh, his body anchoring you as you unraveled in his arms.

Law’s mouth brushed against your temple, his breath heavy, warm. His fingers slowed but didn’t pull away, drawing out the last aftershocks until you were left clinging to him, boneless, dazed.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the sound of water rushing around you the only thing grounding you back to reality.

Then, slowly, he withdrew his hand, smoothing it up your side in a silent, wordless touch. His other hand slid to cup your face, tilting you up until your eyes met his. His gaze was dark, molten, unreadable—but there was something else there, something possessive.

Then, finally, he shifted, guiding himself against you, the first press sending a sharp gasp spilling from your lips. He was slow, agonizingly so, stretching you inch by inch, filling you completely. Your breath hitched, nails dragging along his skin as your body adjusted to the burning stretch, the sensation overwhelming, intoxicating.

Law’s grip on your hip tightened, a low groan rumbling deep in his chest as he pushed in fully, his forehead resting against yours. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough, strained. “You feel—” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, his control slipping just enough for you to feel the way his muscles tensed, the way his fingers flexed against your skin.

Your body clenched around him in response, a soft, helpless whimper escaping as pleasure spiked through you, sharp and all-consuming. He cursed under his breath, his hands tightening on your waist, as if steadying himself.

For a moment, he didn’t move, letting you adjust, letting the sensation settle, thick and overwhelming. His lips brushed against yours, soft, teasing. “Still with me?” he murmured.

You nodded, breathless, dizzy, your body already arching toward him, silently begging for more.

Law exhaled slowly, his smirk returning, dark and knowing. “Good.”

Then, with an achingly slow pull, he dragged back, almost leaving you empty before thrusting in again, deeper this time, sharper, hitting that spot that had your breath catching in your throat. Your moan was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you again, deep and claiming, matching the slow, deliberate rhythm of his hips.

Each movement was measured, controlled, like he was savoring every reaction, every gasp and tremble. He set the pace, not rushing, not giving in to urgency, but making sure you felt every single inch of him, every drag, every deep, toe-curling thrust.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips parting against his as your moans melted into his mouth. The water streamed around you both, heat and steam curling between your bodies, but none of it compared to the fire building inside you, coiling tighter with each roll of his hips.

"Law—" His name left your lips in a breathless plea, need curling through every syllable.

He groaned at the way you said it, his pace stuttering just slightly before he recovered, his smirk pressing against your skin. "Tell me what you want," he murmured, voice thick, teasing.

Your nails dragged down his back, your body arching into him, desperate for more. "Faster," you breathed. "Please."

Law chuckled softly, the sound low and indulgent, but he gave you exactly what you asked for. His grip tightened, his rhythm shifting, deepening, quickening, each thrust sending another jolt of pleasure crashing through you. The pressure inside you built, spiraling higher, faster, your moans rising with every push, every drag of his hips.

Your head fell back against the tile, pleasure overtaking everything, your senses drowning in him—his touch, his heat, the sound of his ragged breaths mixing with your own.

"That's it," he muttered, voice rough, coaxing, his lips trailing along your jaw. "Let me hear you."

Your body tightened around him, that unbearable coil winding tighter, tighter—until it snapped. Your cry echoed off the tiled walls as pleasure crashed over you, white-hot and all-consuming. Your body trembled, pulsing around him, and Law groaned, his grip bruising as he chased his own release.

With one final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside you, a low, guttural hum into the warm air, his body tensing against yours. He held you close, forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm, heavy, mixing with your own as the last aftershocks pulsed through both of you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound between you the steady rush of water and your uneven breathing.

Then, finally, Law exhaled, a lazy smirk curling at his lips as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

"Think you can handle another round?" he nuzzled into you, his voice low.

You groaned, half-exhausted, half-tempted, and let your forehead drop against his shoulder. "Give me a minute," you muttered, breathless.

Law chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss against your damp skin. "Take your time," he murmured. "I’m not going anywhere."

[natsaffection]

You should write more vamp nat but like fluff. PLEASE write one where vampire nat becomes like a whiney and needy dom. Or protective vampire nat, jealous vampire nat, obsessive vampire nat, possessive vampire nat

Vampire Natasha | hcs

Vampire!older!Natasha x Human!younger!Reader

A/N: Headcanons under the cut!

-

Being loved by Natasha isn’t just a romance..it’s an eternal, inescapable obsession.

🩸 Natasha’s Obsession with You 🩸

• Natasha doesn’t just love you, she worships you. You are the center of her universe, the one thing keeping her grounded in an immortal existence that would otherwise mean nothing.

• She is constantly watching you, even when you think she isn’t. She lurks in the shadows, monitoring your every move, making sure you’re safe.

• Her mind is consumed by you. Even when she’s away, you are all she thinks about. Your scent lingers in her nose, your voice echoes in her head, your warmth haunts her cold, undead body.

• She needs to touch you at all times. If you so much as shift away from her, she will immediately pull you back, gripping your hips, nuzzling into your neck.

• “You are mine, Darling. You don’t get to be anywhere but here.”

• Her obsession is territorial. She wants people to know that you belong to her. She wants them to be afraid of what will happen if they forget.

• She loves marking you. Whether it’s faint bite marks, bruises from her grip, or the possessive way her scent clings to your skin, she needs the world to see her claim on you.

🩸 Overprotective & Possessive Natasha 🩸

• If Natasha could keep you locked away in a castle where no one else could see you, she would. The only reason she doesn’t is because she knows you’d fight her on it.

• No one gets too close to you. If they do, they don’t get a second chance. One wrong glance, one lingering touch, and Natasha is there, standing between you and them, her green eyes glowing with quiet rage.

• “Back. Away.” Her voice is soft, calm, but the threat is undeniable.

• She makes sure you’re never alone. If she isn’t physically beside you, you will be carrying something of hers: a jacket, a scarf, something that makes it clear you are claimed.

• If she even suspects someone is following you, they disappear before they ever reach you. You never know what happens to them. You never ask.

• “You are so fragile, lyubov..(love)” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But don’t worry. I will never let anything hurt you.”

🩸 Jealous & Territorial Natasha 🩸

• Natasha doesn’t get jealous..she gets territorial. If someone even thinks about flirting with you, she is immediately at your side, pressing a slow kiss to your neck while glaring at them.

• She loves to make it clear that you belong to her. She’ll whisper possessive little things into your ear just to make sure everyone knows.

• “Let them look. Let them see what they can’t have.”

• If someone dares to flirt with you? She will drag you into her lap, wrapping an arm around you as she leans in close to your ear.

• “Tell them you’re taken.”

• If you hesitate for even a second, she will say it for you. With her fangs bared.

• If a vampire ever dares to challenge her claim on you? That’s a death sentence. Everyone knows better than to cross Natasha Romanoff, but if someone is stupid enough to try, she makes an example out of them.

🩸 Needy & Whiny Dom Natasha 🩸

• Despite how dominant she is, Natasha is so needy. She is clingy, whiny, and desperate for your attention.

• If you don’t give her enough affection, she will pout and sulk, curling herself around you like a spoiled cat.

• “Why are you ignoring me, moya lyubov? (My love) I’ve been so good for you.”

• If you even attempt to move away from her in bed, she whimpers dramatically, burying her face in your neck.

• “Stay. You’re warm. I’ll die without you.”

• She hates waiting. If you tease her, if you tell her “not right now.” she will physically drag you into her lap, gripping your hips tightly.

• “I don’t wait for what’s mine, Detka (Baby). And you are mine.”

• She is a spoiled dom. She doesn’t like being teased, and if you push her too far, she will make sure you regret it. She whines when denied but ruins you once she gets what she wants.

• She gets especially needy when she’s hungry. Not just for blood, but for you. You can always tell because she’ll start getting clingier than usual, constantly nuzzling into your neck, letting her lips linger against your skin for just a little too long.

• “You smell so good..” she murmurs, voice thick with longing. “I could devour you whole.”

• If you tease her? Oh, you’re doomed. If you so much as smirk and say “Not now, Nat..” she will literally whine like a spoiled brat.

• “But I need you.” Her hands grip your hips possessively, her lips pressing against your collarbone. “Please. Just one taste..”

🩸 The Monster in Love With You 🩸

• Natasha Romanoff is not a normal lover. She is obsessive. She is dangerous. She is inhumanly in love with you.

• She will never let you go. Not now, not in a hundred years. You are hers, and she is yours, and she will kill anyone who forgets that.

• She will make you feel her love. In the way she protects you, in the way she clings to you, in the way she worships your existence like a starving animal.

• And one day, she will ask you:

“Let me keep you forever.” And she will wait, patient but hungry, as you decide whether or not you want to become hers in every way possible.

Would you say yes?

-

-

-

-

[pronouncingitwang]

[ID: 8 screenshots of text reading

DOCTOR: What happened? AMY: Twelve years. DOCTOR: You hit me with a cricket bat. AMY: Twelve years. DOCTOR: A cricket bat. AMY: Twelve years and four psychiatrists. DOCTOR: Four? AMY: I kept biting them. DOCTOR: Why? AMY: They said you weren't real.

And this was where Amy Pond usually woke up - unable to make sense of this strange, unsettling dream about a mother she didn't have… about a memory she was sure couldn't be real. In a cold sweat, she reached for the glass of water by her bed, gulping at it. And then, as psychiatrist number three had taught her to do, she counted to ten. She had stopped trying to learn her psychiatrists' names. There was no point when they never lasted. And they never lasted because she kept biting them when they told her he wasn't real. Her raggedy man.

Remember that dog that got run over? I can still see the van driver cradling it and saying the same thing over and over, really desperately hoping that it was all going to be OK. Now here's Amy Pond, standing in the freezing ocean, hold- ing the dead body of her imaginary friend, and shouting at the sea to make him better. Yeah. If only my therapists could see me now.

[Living room] (The nice lady psychiatrist is looking at a painting of the moon and stars.) CHRISTINE: It's a lovely painting, Amelia. And what are all these? AMELIA: Stars. SHARON: Oh, Amelia. CHRISTINE: Tell you what, shall we go outside? [Outside the house] CHRISTINE: What do you see, Amelia? AMELIA: The moon. CHRISTINE: And what else? AMELIA: Just the dark. CHRISTINE: But no stars. If there were stars up there, we'd be able to see them, wouldn't we? Amelia, look at me. You know this is all just a story, don't you? You know there's no such thing as stars.

Amy's eyes were filling with tears but she blinked them away quickly. She knew that eventually she would have to tell him, but she didn't know how. Not without him thinking she was crazy, just like her psychiatrists and her aunt and the school counsellor. And she really didn't want to bite Rory when he was being so nice to her, and …

INTERFACE: Unexpected visitor. Welcome. Please seek assistance. (A Handbot is up ahead.) AMY: Hello? Hey. Oi, wait. (The Handbot turns and scans her.) HANDBOT: You are carrying unregistered bacteria. Please let me help you. AMY: No, I'm not from this world. Your medicine'll kill me. HANDBOT: Statement rejected. Do not be alarmed. This is a kindness.

'That's ironic. So, you just keep them locked up here?' the Doctor said. He sipped his tea. 'How moral and ethical is that?' Jackson set down his tea on one of the few empty spaces on his desk. 'They're here for their own good.' 'I've heard that before,' Amy retorted. 'No, I mean it. They're here for treatment.'

AUGUSTUS: At the age of six and announced that the new head teacher wasn't real because she looked like a cartoon. AMY: Shut up, Dad! RORY: Amy? AUGUSTUS: Amelia? AMY: Sorry, but shut up, please. There's someone missing. Someone important. Someone so, so important. RORY: Amy, what's wrong? AMY: Sorry. Sorry, everyone. But when I was a kid, I had an imaginary friend. TABETHA: Oh no, not this again. AMY: The raggedy Doctor. My raggedy Doctor. But he wasn't imaginary, he was real. TABETHA: The psychiatrists we sent her to.

/end ID]

amy pond + involuntary / coercive treatment

( the eleventh hour / the girl who tore through the universe by nikita gill / dead of winter by james goss / the big bang / the girl who tore through the universe by nikita gill / the girl who waited / apollo 23 by justin richards / the big bang )

[melercies]

pairing(s): thanos x (slightly implied fem reader, but gender-neutral pronouns) x nam-gyu (separately + together)

warning(s): shower sex/smut [minors dni], dirty talk, gender-neutral pronouns, physical/psychological intensity, tension and coercion, rough handling, dubious consent, lowercase usage is intended, and my best interpretation of the two characters.

author's note: can we please talk about as to why thanos chest moved like that in the gif after he chest bumped nam-gyu. LIKE WHAT. otherwise, i was holding back myself from losing my sanity writing this. I WAS GIGGLING. please let me know if i missed anything! likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated!

Showering with Nam-gyu... he isn't the type to voluntarily suggest showering together. he's too prideful, too rigid in his own habits. if you try to invite him, expect resistance—he'll scoff, wave you off, maybe even sneer, "what, you think i can't wash myself?" but if you're persistent—or if he's in a vulnerable state, exhausted or frustrated—he might begrudgingly accept.

the moment he's in there with you, though, everything shifts. he doesn't like feeling exposed, so he overcompensates—gripping your wrist a little too firmly as he takes the soap from your hand, washing you instead. his touch is rougher than necessary, his jaw tight. he's testing you, seeing if you'll let him take over completely.

nam-gyu has his moments—brief moments—where he lets his guard slip just for a little bit. if you turn around and gently wash his back, he stiffens, like he doesn't know how to react. but he won't stop you. he won't say anything, but the way he stands still, the way his breath comes a little slower, tells you more than words ever could.

after you guys get out of the shower, he dries off quickly, efficiently even—wrapping the towel around his waist, avoiding eye contact, acting like nothing just happened. but if you grab a towel and start drying his hair for him? he grumbles at first, tries to shove you away, but if you're patient, he stops resisting. he won't admit it, but the warmth of your touch, the way you're taking care of him, gets to him.

Sex with Nam-gyu in the shower isn't romantic. it's raw, messy, and filled with frustration he won't ever admit. he doesn't do slow, drawn-out foreplay—his hands are rough, gripping you with a possessiveness that makes it clear this isn't about pleasure. it's about control.

you barely have time to register the heat of the water before he's pinning you to the cold tiles, his body pressing against yours, trapping you between the slick surface and his overwhelming presence. "you knew what you were doing when you pulled me in here," he mutters, his breath hot against your ear. his tone is sharp, but beneath it, there's something hungrier, something dangerous.

he doesn't give you room to breathe. his hands roam your body like he owns it, dragging down your hips, fingers pressing into the sensitive skin as he pulls you closer. the cool metal of his rings bites against your heated skin, adding an extra sharpness to every touch, every possessive grip. there's nothing slow or teasing about the way he takes you—it's intense, unrelenting, a mix of frustration and something far more desperate he'd never admit.

the shower's heat made everything slicker, your skin was burning under his touch, water running down both of you in rivulets. his lips are at your neck, biting, sucking, marking—because he wants you to remember this, to feel it longer after you step out of the shower. his hands grip your waist, tilting you just the way he wants, and when he finally thrusts into you, it's without hesitation, without restraint. you cry out from the abrupt intrusion. he grits his teeth, eyes dark with something almost feral, his grip bruising.

he's relentless, every thrust punctuated with a sharp exhale, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you still. the rings on his fingers leave ghostly impressions on your wet skin, a reminder of how firmly he holds you, how thoroughly he's claiming you.

"look at you," he growls, voice thick with amusement and something darker. "already falling apart on me?" but there's something in his expression—something deeper than just the pleasure itself. it's possession. you're his, and he's making damn sure you know it. if you look away, he doesn't hesitate to grab your jaw and lock eyes. "don't look away, look at me while i ruin you, yeah?"

even when he finishes, he doesn't pull away immediately. his arms tighten around you, his chest rising and falling heavily, forehead resting against yours for just a moment—just enough to make your heart stutter. then, as if realizing what he's done, he pulls back, his hands sliding away almost reluctantly. "get cleaned up before the water gets cold." he sounds almost as if he doesn't care, but the way he lingers for a second too long tells you everything you need to know.

Showering with Thanos/Choi Su-Bong...thanos doesn't need to be asked twice. he's casual about it like it's the most natural thing in the world. he'll lean in the doorway, shirt already half-unbuttoned or taken off completely, watching you with that cocky, knowing smile. "water's already running. you coming or what?"

he's not rough like nam-gyu—he's intrusive and deliberate. he gets too close, under the pretense of helping. fingers brushing over your collarbone as he lathers soap onto your skin, lips ghosting your temple as he murmurs something about how good the water feels (and the view too). everything he does is slow, controlled, and meant to sink into you.

he's watching your every reaction, noting every small shift in your breathing, every flicker in your gaze. "you're tense," he'll say, dragging his hands down your arms. but the way he smirks? he likes that tension—like how he can pull at it, stretch it, toy with it practically.

he'll wash your hair too gently, his fingers massaging your scalp, whispering something about how you're so trusting. but there's always something unreadable in his voice. like he's seeing how far he can push, how much you'll let him get away with. "what if i just held you under for a second?" it's a joke—probably. but you feel the way his fingers tighten, just for a moment, before he lets go.

after you guys get out of the shower though, he actually takes his time drying off, watching you as he runs the towel over his arms, down his torso. there's always something suggestive in the way he moves, in the way he watches you. and if you're still standing there, a little shaken from the whole experience? he'll just chuckle, and tease you about it before tossing the towel over his shoulder and leaving you with a lingering, too-knowing smirk.

Sex with Thanos in the shower is an entirely different experience. where nam-gyu is rough, desperate, needing to assert control, thanos takes his time. or at least, he tries to. but patience? that's not really his strong suit.

the second you step under the water, he's already behind you, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back against him like he's been starving for this. "think i can wait?" he mutters, his voice low, breath warm against your ear. "not a chance, sweetheart."

he's not gentle—he acts like he'll take his sweet time, but the second he feels your skin slick under his fingers, the temptation is too much. his hands roam over you, pressing soap into your skin, but his grip is firm, his fingers pressing into your thighs, your waist, your chest, everywhere at once.

"you're all wet for me already," he muses, his lips grazing your shoulder before he bites down just enough to make you shudder. his hand slides lower, between your legs, fingers teasing, rubbing slow circles—but only for a moment. because teasing? it's only fun for so long before he needs more.

when he finally thrusts into you, his grip tightens, one hand wrapping around your throat, the other pinning you against the glass wall of the shower. his pace is ruthless and deep, his voice a low growl against your ear. "you feel that?" he murmurs into your ear between rough thrusts. "taking me so well."

unlike nam-gyu, thanos doesn't pace himself—he loses himself in it, breathing hard, groaning your name as he ruins you under the scalding water. his impatience bleeds into every movement, his fingers digging into your skin, pulling you back against him with every sharp roll of his hips.

when he finally finishes, he doesn't even pretend to pull away. he keeps you pressed against him, breathless and spent, his lips dragging along your damp skin as he smirks. "told you i couldn't wait."

Showering with both Nam-gyu and Thanos/Choi Su-Bong? you seriously think showering with one of them was chaotic? try both. you're barely even in the water before they start their usual back-and-forth. "move over, dumbass, you're hogging all the water with how wide you are."—"this is all muscle! besides, maybe if you weren't so short, you wouldn't have to fight for it." meanwhile, you are just standing there, already regretting your life choices.

despite the bickering occasionally, they somehow effortlessly work together when it comes to messing with you. nam-gyu grabs the soap, rubbing it into your skin with just enough force to make it clear that his presence is still strongly there, while thanos watches with an infuriatingly smug expression. then, just as you're adjusting to nam-gyu's rougher touch, thanos steps in behind you, running his hands over the lathered skin nam-gyu worked over, softer but too slow, his voice dropping into something mockingly gentle. "is nam-su being too rough? let me fix that." "it's nam-gyu."

being in the shower with both of them means that the teasing will never stop. if you flinch when the water turns too hot, thanos hums, "sensitive, aren't they?" nam-gyu scoffs, "they're just weak." if you get flustered from the way they're both touching you, thanos leans in, lips ghosting your temple, "look at them, bro. they don't know what to do with themselves." nam-gyu only presents a shit-eating grin on his face, "pathetic. perhaps, we can fix that, hmmm?" and you? poor you was trying so hard not to combust in between the two males.

thanos pretends to be the more helpful one, offering to shampoo your hair like he's doing you a favor, but it's all a setup. he takes way too long, his fingers massaging your scalp in slow, circular motions, his breath warm against your neck. nam-gyu watches with narrowed eyes before stepping in and dumping way too much water over your head to rinse it out, "took too long," he mutters, but you know he did it on purpose.

the moment the shower is over, nam-gyu is out first, muttering under his breath about some things that happened during the shower. thanos, on the other hand, surprisingly, takes his time drying off with a smug expression as he watches you. he's obvious that he's clearly amused by how rattled you look. he leans in before leaving, whispering, "you should've known better than to get in with both of us."

you wanna know the worst part? they both act like nothing happened afterward—except for the occasional smirk from thanos and the side-eye from nam-gyu when you avoid looking at them. and if you get even slightly flustered thinking about it later? oh, they notice.

Having sex with both of them in the shower at once? like I've mentioned before, it was a mistake. a trap. you never stood a chance.

nam-gyu gets to you first, gripping your waist, and pulling you back against his chest. "you should've known better," he mutters, his breath hot against your ear. "letting both of us in here?" his tone is sharp, laced with amusement, but his grip is firm.

thanos, standing in front of you, just smirks. his tilts your chin up, eyes gleaming with amusement. "i think they wanted this..look how eager they are." his fingers trail down your slick skin, teasing, ghosting lower but not quite touching where you need him to.

you barely have time to react before nam-gyu decides he's had enough of thanos's games. his hands tighten on your hips, tilting you exactly the way he wants, and he doesn't hesitate when he finally thrusts into you—rough, deep, making you gasp.

thanos is only amused by the little sounds you make, watching the way your body jolts. he steps closer, tilting your head back, his lips brushing against yours as he whispers, "let's see if you can handle both of us."

and from there, it's over for you.

one of them is relentless, unforgiving in his pace, making sure you feel every inch of him. the other is just as impatient, just desperate, and you're caught between them, drowning in the intensity of it all.

by the time they're done with you, the water is cold, your legs are shaking, and both of them look way too pleased with themselves.

and worst of all? they aren't going to let you live it down.

[yeokii]

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ઇ  NO ❨ ONE ❩ NOTICED

‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎. ‎‎hold me, console me and then i'll leave without a trace

【 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 】 : ex hee&fmr ! ᐢ..ᐢ containing + angst ❨ 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 ❩ crying, reader and hee are 18 ✷ 6OO ways to hurt me ──── JOURNALZ ﹑ liek&reblog!

a thing you would constantly think about during nights like these were how heeseung's eyes would glimmer under the moon. how silky his skin looked and you would be terrified to touch him, scared he would break at the lightest touch.

he was the prettiest boy you had seen in your eighteen years of living. you loved every part of him, a thing you hated to admit. you would blush at the thought of him.

he was your prettiest boy.

"hey angel." a soft voice lingered in the air below your balcony. a voice that belonged to no other than heeseung.

"seung?" your legs ran to the voice, as you looked down your balcony; you could almost fall down into his arms.

you don't know how, but he was already hanging onto your balcony, finding his way inside which you had no protest to.

"aren't you cold?" you instantly cupped your warm hands against his face, one that looked like it was blessed by aphrodite.

you remembered what you were first thinking of before he got here, his eyes. how they shined under the face of the moon. but it felt different now, his eyes felt unsure─like he was holding back something.

"angel..." a nickname you adored, suddenly felt uneasy.

"is everything okay?" you reached out to him when he pulled back from your touch. you desperately searched for some comfort that was hiding in his eyes.

he shook his head as leaned his body against the railing. a rough knot settled in your throat, your heart is inches away from falling into your stomach.

"are we okay?" you asked the question that ran miles in your head.

he shook his head again.

heeseung had only spoken two words since he met you and he already caused your heart to shatter into a million pieces in mere seconds.

"i'm sorry angel. i can't do this anymore."

"no, no. heeseung we can fix this." you said, finding more words to spew at him to fix this growing gap between you two.

"please tell me, seung. you know we could get over this together. please seung." you said, your hands enveloped his own and squeezed it enough to show your desperation.

"you can't fix this, angel. somethings you just can't fix." he said, looking at the sky, knowing if he looked at your eyes he would simply break.

"why not? why not, seung? couldn't we fix anything together?" you sniffed through your pain.

"angel, you can't fix someone falling...out of love." his silky voice cracked. your angel cracked.

what were you supposed to say?

you didn't say anything, only words that weren't legible. tears and sniffs turned into moans and sobs. his hands that were enveloped by yours now took its turn to engulf your figure against his.

"you promised seung. you promised we would be with each other till the end of time." and he had promised in this very balcony.

he held you so dear, much like how he did when he first confessed. he consoled you gently like how he did when you didn't pass your math exam.

now he'd leave you without a trace.

no matter how much you'd argue with him, you knew he'd be gone in your life tomorrow when you wake up in a cold bed, without your angel.

tags . @zuyairus @bubblytaetae @yenqa @voikiraz @miumura @haechansbbg @taejaysreads @shinunoga-iie-wa @teddywonss @naespas @isoobie @dimplewonie @jennaissantes @aishigrey @firstclassjaylee @rikislove @hynjinnnnnnnn

[dadsdog]

Kinda vague prompt but can you do some of your ur usual shit but like. In a truck. Like one with a bench seat. I like pretty much all the shit u post about. Js... truck. In a truck.

as an avid truck sex enjoyer, this is awesome ty :] this one's not very forcemasc-y but it's VERY dad/son fauxcest-y

while i'm all for dad/son incest fantasies, i can't stop thinking about a teenage boy, who opens up to an older man (maybe a family friend, a friend's father) about his relationship with his dad. how he was never there, how he never supported his son when he needed it most. the older man comforts him, wraps him up in a tight hug. "hey... you're gonna be okay bud." the boy sniffles and looks up at him, still clinging to him desperately, "thank you. im sorry for dumping all of this on you." he shakes his head. "don't say that kiddo, there's no need to be sorry. i'm happy to listen. just say the word and i'm there."

he starts spending less time at home, and more time with this older guy. he takes the boy to get food, shows him all his old interests, let's him ramble on for hours about one thing or another. and if the boy's father did anything that upset him, he would always be there to listen.

this kid finds himself thinking about him all the time. how wonderful he is, how patient and kind. he wonders what it would ve been like for him to be his dad instead. he thinks about how he smiles at him when he speaks, how handsome he is. he thinks about how whenever they re going out somewhere, he always rests his hand on the nape of the boy's neck. his hands are big and calloused, but so gentle. he wonders why he gets so excited when he touches him. wonders how his hands would feel cupping his chin or petting his hair.

"i wish you were my dad." the boy confesses to him, on a late night drive. he looks down, finds his hand gripping the truck's bench seat. the older man has gone strangely quiet. looking over at him, the boy tilts his head. "what's wrong?" the man feels his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "you shouldn't say stuff like that, kiddo." "why not? you might as well already be my dad, you're the one actually looking out for me."

the man pulls over jerkily, stopping in a forgotten, tree lined road. he exhales heavily, hands still clenched. "hey, what's wrong? did i do something?" he's never this quiet. the kid slides closer to him, and hears him inhale sharply, like the older man had just been burned. "are you ok? what did i do? i promise i wont do it again. please, just tell me whats wrong." he lays a hand onto the older man's knee.

suddenly, the man has the boy by the shoulders, gripping him tightly and pushing him away. he gasps, clearly spooked by the roughness of his touch. "i'm sorry, kiddo. you didn't do anything wrong. it's me." his hands loosen their grip ever so slightly, he starts to rub comforting circles up and down the boy's arm. "you can't say stuff like that." the boy tilts his head. "why?"

he had no idea what to say. because i've wanted to fuck you ever since you first cried into my shirt. because the idea of having you as my son gets me so hard i can't think. because i don't know how long i can have you in my car without losing control and taking advantage of you.

"because i..." he stares down into the boy's eyes.

"you just shouldn't." he starts to break away from the touch, but the kid moves to hold his hand, pouting up at him. "but i really do think of you like that. i think of you as my dad." he inhales sharply again, feeling his cock throb in his jeans. he tightens his jaw and his mind strains with the effort of not grabbing the kid and rutting his cock into him through their clothes.

the kid looks up at him, creeping even closer.

"i love you, dad."

the final shred of self control left in the man is shattered into nothing. he grabs the boy by his waist roughly, and puts his other hand in his hair. he brings their lips together in a sloppy, clumsy, hungry kiss. the boy's eyes go wide and his mouth falls open as he lets out a cry of surprise. this only allows the man to slip his tongue into his mouth.

"wait- mmh!" the boy is pulled roughly onto the man's lap, where he can feel the hard cock pressing up into him. the older man finally pulls away from the kiss and holds the boy's head on his shoulder. "fuck- 'm sorry. love you. god, you're such a good kid. fuck."

he's grinding into the boy's pussy, hissing his apologies into his ear. he can feel the boy take fistfuls of his shirt, gasping and shaking. "wait-what are you doing, please-" "shh. it's okay. you're okay. fuck, i'm sorry- just let me-" his hands grab hold of his hips, pushing the kids small body against his, listening to his shocked moans. the boy is too stunned to say anything, to ask what he's doing, why it makes him all wet down there, why it makes him feel so good. "mnh. shit. im sorry, have to have you- doing so good, champ-nnhgh." he feels the boy lift his head to look him in the eyes. tears are dripping down his cheeks, but his face is twisted in pleasure. his cock throbs so hard the kid can feel his pulse through his jeans.

"feels- nnh! it feels- weird, dad. nmh! dad!" he can't stop himself from slamming the boy's hips down onto his cock. "call me dad. fuck. do it again, son. nngh- say i'm your dad." the boy's thighs shake on his lap. "dad. nngh- you're my dad. mngh! ah! dad- please don't stop- hhnm" the kid feels warmth spreading through his body, and pooling in his stomach. the friction and the rubbing and the hands on his hips are all too much. he feels a pressure building, making his cries for dad even louder.

"ah! nmh! dad, m-my- it feels- nngh! oh god, dad. oh god oh god oh god dad." he feels the kids thrust his hips back and forth on dad's cock, chasing that fuzzy warm feeling in his tummy. "ngh- shit. such a good boy. c'mon son- fuck. gonna make me cum. gonna make your dad cum. nnnh, fuck!"

"dad, dad, dad! nnh! my- it's gonna- oh god daddy! daddy!" the boy doesn't know what's happening. his boxers are soaked through and his head is fuzzy and the pressure in his tummy is too much. he grinds his pussy into his dad's lap hard, in a long downward motion, that finally lets the pressure release.

his dad watches as he quivers, cumming on his lap, completely overwhelmed by the shock of his own orgasm. he watches his boy moaning and crying for him, and feeling his orgasm build, he grabs his hips and presses him down onto his cock, thrusting upwards and cumming in his jeans for his little boy.

the kid collapses into him, panting and shaking, occasionally twitching with aftershocks of his orgasm. the man, huffing and sweaty, embraces him, placing soft kisses on his head. they sit like that in his truck for a long few minutes, catching their breath, before his boy looks up at him.

"i love you, dad."

[reveriebae]

Mamacita

pairing(s) : Choi San x reader

word count : 2551

summary : After a reckless night out, you return home to find San waiting—possessive, dominant, and unwilling to let you go. The tension between you explodes into rough, desperate passion, leaving no room for resistance. By the end, you're breathless, ruined, and undeniably his.

genre : smut

warning(s) : explicit sexual content, rough sex, dominance and submission dynamics, choking, degradation, spit play, possessiveness, jealousy, slight emotional manipulation, alcohol consumption, and intense themes of control and obsession. Let me know if I missed anything!

part of Songfic

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut 🪐

The sound of your heels echoed down the hallway as you made your way back to your apartment, the alcohol still buzzing in your veins. It had been one of those nights—tequila shots, loud music, and no real care for consequences. You hadn’t planned on coming back this early, but something about tonight had you feeling reckless.

As you reached the door, you found it slightly ajar. The living room light flickered in the dim hallway. You didn’t need to knock—you knew who it was.

San. Your roommate. Your chaos.

You slid inside, your body moving instinctively towards the kitchen. You needed something stronger than water—tequila, preferably. You grabbed the bottle, pouring it into a glass, ignoring the fact that your head was already spinning from the last round.

Behind you, the sound of a door creaking open made you freeze. You didn’t even have to look to know who it was. His presence was enough to make your pulse race. San was like a storm—you never saw it coming, but when it hit, you were left breathless, unable to escape.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his lips curling into a half-smirk. You could already tell from the look in his eyes that tonight wasn’t going to be any different. He was hungry. And for some reason, you knew you were the one he was after.

“Tequila again?” San’s voice was smooth, but there was a sharp edge to it. “Thought you were done with that shit.”

You smirked, turning to face him. “What’s it to you? I like the burn.” You took a slow sip, meeting his gaze without flinching. There was something dangerous in the way his eyes darkened, something primal, like he was trying to figure out your next move.

His gaze dropped to your lips, the tension in the air thickening with every passing second. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly walked toward you, his movements deliberate, controlled. When he stopped in front of you, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. His presence was suffocating—an intoxicating mix of power and desire.

You didn’t move, didn’t back away. It wasn’t the first time you felt this pull between you two—this unspoken, undeniable attraction. But tonight, something felt different. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through your body, maybe it was the way his gaze felt like it was stripping you bare. Whatever it was, you couldn’t ignore it.

“You’ve been out there, fucking around with everyone else again,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. “You know that’s not gonna keep me away, right?”

You scoffed, setting your glass down. “And why would you care?” You knew what he was getting at. The unspoken agreement between the two of you had never been clear-cut—no feelings, no attachments. Just physical. Just need.

San leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “Because I’m the only one who can handle you.” He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye. “And you’re the only one who can make me lose control.”

His words sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. You felt your breath catch, the familiar fire igniting in your stomach, pulling you toward him, making your body ache with a need you couldn’t quite satisfy.

Before you could even react, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you towards the couch. The force of his grip was enough to send a shiver down your spine. He didn’t care about your personal space—he never did.

San sat down first, tugging you onto his lap. You straddled him, the pressure between your thighs already unbearable. The air between you and San thickened the moment you sat down on his lap, your body already aching for him. He wasn’t the type to wait for permission. His hands moved with hunger, and his lips crashed into yours with such force that it left no room for anything else.

His fingers slid roughly under your shirt, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. You gasped, the cool air hitting your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from his body. His chest pressed against yours, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart as his hands gripped your waist with bruising force, pulling you impossibly closer.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but suddenly, you were on your back, San’s body hovering over yours. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with need, and his lips twisted into a devilish grin.

"You want it this bad, huh?" he growled, his voice rough and full of dark promise. He was already pulling your legs apart with force, his fingers gliding down your body, tracing your curves before finally stopping between your thighs.

You bucked against him, the pressure almost unbearable, but he didn't give you what you needed. Not yet.

He leaned down, lips trailing over your throat, leaving hot, wet kisses along your sensitive skin. His mouth moved lower, his hands gripping the edge of your panties before tearing them off in one swift motion, not giving a single fuck about being gentle.

Your breath hitched as his lips found their way between your legs. You were so wet already, your body reacting to him in ways you couldn’t control. But he wasn’t going to let you have the release you needed. Not yet.

"Beg for it," he whispered against your skin, the words sending a shiver down your spine. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, the intensity in his gaze making your insides clench.

You shook your head, feeling a burst of frustration mixed with need. You didn’t want to beg, but the way his fingers were toying with you, teasing you, made it impossible to think straight.

San’s smile was predatory as he finally gave in, his mouth moving back up to meet yours. His lips were hungry, demanding, and as he kissed you, his hand found your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath catch. You gasped into his mouth, and that was when he spit into it.

The feeling was filthy, unexpected, but it sent a wave of heat through your entire body. You moaned softly, your fingers digging into his back as you kissed him harder, tasting the salt of his spit on your tongue.

San chuckled darkly, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. "You like that, don’t you?" His voice was low, rough, and full of arrogance.

You couldn’t even respond. All you could do was nod, your lips swollen and your body burning with the need for more. You hated how much you craved it, hated how much you needed him to take control, but it was undeniable.

Before you could speak, his hands were gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch, his mouth descending once again, this time with more urgency. You could feel his breath against your skin, hot and hungry, as he finally pressed his tongue into you, taking you in with brutal precision.

Your body reacted immediately, hips bucking in response to his every move, but you still couldn’t get enough. San was relentless, his grip on you tight as he continued, his tongue working faster, harder, until you were gasping, shuddering beneath him.

"Tell me," he growled, voice thick with lust. "Tell me you need it, need me."

"I need you," you choked out, the words coming out in a desperate gasp. "Please, San, make me come."

He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes, that twisted smirk playing at his lips. "You begged for it," he muttered, and then he was up, his body positioning itself above you, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he slid into you in one swift, punishing thrust.

You screamed, the sudden stretch making your body tense before relaxing into him. San’s hands tightened on your hips as he began to fuck you harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

But you weren’t going to let him dominate you completely. Not this time.

You shifted beneath him, rolling your hips to match his rhythm, pushing him deeper inside of you. He groaned, his hand moving to grip your throat again, choking you just enough to send a burst of heat through your body.

You responded by grabbing his face, pulling him down into another desperate kiss, tongues tangling together as you fought for control. But he wasn’t having it. Not tonight.

San pulled back again, his eyes dark and burning with that familiar intensity. He spat down onto your chest, the saliva trailing down your skin in thick, warm rivulets. It was filthy, it was wrong, but it made you want him more. You moaned loudly, your body tightening in response to the overwhelming sensation.

"You like that, don’t you?" he hissed, his fingers digging into your skin as he thrust harder, deeper.

"Yes, fuck—yes!" you screamed, the heat building in your core until you couldn’t hold it anymore.

San didn’t stop. He only went harder, faster, making you lose yourself in the feeling of him. Your world was nothing but the pressure, the friction, the heat. He was everything you needed, everything you wanted.

When you finally came, it was like a tidal wave crashing over you—violent, messy, and completely overwhelming. You cried out his name as you clenched around him, your body shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

San wasn’t far behind. He came with a loud groan, his body freezing above you as he released deep inside. His hands remained gripping your body, holding you in place as he rode out his high.

Both of you were panting, sweat-slicked bodies tangled together in the aftermath. The room smelled of sex, tequila, and something darker. Something you both couldn’t ignore.

He pulled away slowly, eyes still dark with desire as he looked down at you. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and his lips were curled into a satisfied grin.

“That’s my mamacita,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You lay there beneath him, too exhausted to even speak. You knew you were his, in every twisted, fucked-up way.

And deep down, you hated it. But tonight, you needed him. More than you wanted to admit.

San’s breath was still hot against your skin, and you could feel the remnants of his release dripping down your thighs, mixing with the sweat that clung to both of you. You were panting, completely undone, but that wasn’t enough for him—no, not tonight.

With a predatory gleam in his eyes, he leaned down, his lips brushing over your neck before they traveled lower, tracing the sensitive skin of your collarbone. You squirmed beneath him, your body still on fire, but you knew he wasn’t done with you. Not yet.

"You’re not getting away that easily," San growled, his voice thick with need as he moved his hands to your wrists, pinning them above your head. His lips met yours in a deep, possessive kiss, tongue pushing past your lips in a desperate, greedy exploration.

You moaned into his mouth, but before you could fully respond, he was dragging you up against him, his body pushing yours back into the couch, his cock still hard and ready. His hand moved between your legs, fingers slipping between your folds, and he groaned when he felt how soaked you still were.

“Look at you,” he said darkly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re fucking insatiable.”

You didn’t even have the chance to respond before his fingers pushed inside of you again, his thumb rubbing over your clit in rough circles. You gasped, your hips involuntarily bucking against his hand, wanting to feel him inside of you again.

San smirked, watching you squirm beneath him as he slowly pushed two fingers deeper, making you arch your back. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the desperate sounds bubbling in your chest, but he wasn’t going to let you stay quiet.

He pulled his fingers out and immediately replaced them with his cock, his pace rough and unrelenting. You cried out as he filled you once again, stretching you, making you feel every inch of him.

“Tell me you need me,” he demanded, voice raspy with lust. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you onto him as he fucked you harder. “Tell me you fucking need me.”

"I need you," you gasped, the words slipping out between moans. "Please, San... don’t stop."

San chuckled darkly, his hips snapping into yours faster now, each thrust deep and punishing. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, "You want it like this, don’t you? Rough. Messy. Filthy."

"Yes," you whimpered, your body trembling with the force of his thrusts. "I need you. Fuck, yes."

San's grip on your hips tightened, his nails digging into your skin as he fucked you harder, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you that made your body tremble uncontrollably. His mouth found your throat, sucking and biting, leaving bruises that would remind you of tonight for days to come.

You could feel the tension building again, that familiar pressure coiling tight in your core. San's hand moved between your legs, his thumb flicking over your clit as he fucked you even harder, making everything in your body go wild.

“I’m gonna make you come again,” he growled against your skin, his voice laced with arrogance. “You fucking love it, don’t you?”

"Yes, San, I fucking love it!" you screamed, your body jerking beneath him as the tension in your body finally snapped, waves of pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. You could barely catch your breath, your nails digging into his back as you came undone around him.

But San wasn’t done. Not yet.

He fucked you through your orgasm, his thrusts still brutal, unrelenting, as he chased his own release. His pace never slowed, never faltered, as he fucked you harder and harder, until finally, with a low, guttural groan, he came deep inside of you.

You could feel the heat of him filling you, his cock twitching as he collapsed on top of you, both of you covered in sweat, panting in the aftermath.

But even then, he didn’t let go of you. He kept his body pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling with every breath, as though he was marking you, claiming you completely.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies tangled together in the aftermath, but the room was still thick with the heavy scent of sex, the tension between you two still palpable.

Finally, San pulled back, his fingers gently brushing through your hair as he gazed down at you, his eyes still dark with desire. His lips curled into a satisfied smile as he whispered, “You’re mine, you know that?”

You could only nod, exhausted, but wanting more. You were his, in every way that mattered.

[maeintree]

for all of us | l. laufeyson

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Sequel of For the Children

Summary: After a brutal attack against the royal family, you get hit in the crossfire and Loki realizes what's been missing all along. Pairing: husband!Loki Laufeyson x wife!fem!Reader Word Count: 2.3k Author's Note: yay i made a part two!! and i honestly had a hard time with how the story flowed because i'm not exactly a writer of fighters but i tried my best! hope you enjoy lovies!

The attack came swiftly, without warning.

One moment, you were strolling through the gardens, the children’s laughter echoing through the crisp evening air. The next, the world was chaos.

The glint of a blade. The sharp cry of a guard. The sickening clash of steel.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, instinct screaming at you to move, protect, shield. You shoved the children behind you, your arms spreading wide—a useless gesture, but all you had.

No, no, no—

The first assassin lunged. A guard intercepted, but another took his place. You tried to step back, tried to move, but a searing pain bloomed in your side, hot and white, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You gasped, stumbling, your hand flying to your ribs—wet, sticky. Blood.

I’ve been stabbed.

The thought was oddly distant, detached, as if it belonged to someone else. The pain hadn’t fully hit yet, but the weakness had. Your legs wobbled. The edges of your vision blurred.

The children—where are they? Are they safe?

Through the haze, you heard frantic voices, the clang of weapons, the distinct crack of something—magic, perhaps.

And then, a voice.

A voice you had not expected.

“NO.”

The air around you shook.

A blast of emerald light erupted across the battlefield, swallowing everything in its path. You barely registered the bodies hitting the ground, barely saw the way the assassins’ screams were cut short.

Your legs gave out.

The stone pathway rushed up to meet you, and you braced for impact—only to find yourself caught.

Arms. Somewhat familiar arms.

Loki.

You blinked up at him, dazed, your fingers clutching weakly at his tunic. He was speaking—frantic, desperate—but the words swam together, lost in the roaring in your ears.

Loki?

You had stopped waiting for him long ago. Stopped hoping. Stopped believing that he felt anything at all.

But now, looking at him—his face pale with terror, his hands shaking as they pressed against your wound—you saw something you had never seen before.

Panic.

Desperation.

Fear.

He’s afraid.

The thought made you want to laugh. Loki Laufeyson, afraid? The idea was absurd. He was always so composed, so untouchable, so—

His hands pressed harder, and you gasped, your fingers gripping his wrist in protest. He flinched as if burned.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said. A lie. A desperate, broken lie. “Just—stay awake.”

You wanted to tell him that you would, but your body betrayed you, the darkness creeping at the edges of your vision.

He’s holding me.

It was such a foolish thing to focus on, with your blood staining his hands, with the world tilting precariously beneath you. But you couldn’t help it.

For the first time in years—after all the distance, the silence, the empty nights—Loki touched you.

And he shook violently before darkness consumed you.

You awoke to the distant sound of raised voices.

It took effort to lift your eyelids, as if they had been weighed down by lead. The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the walls, the scent of herbs and linen surrounding you. Your body felt heavy, dull aches pulsing beneath your skin, but the sharp pain from before had faded to something bearable.

You were alive.

But then—the voices.

One of them was unmistakable.

“I am not leaving.”

Even exhausted, even barely conscious, you recognized that tone—sharp, biting, dangerously low. The tone he used when he was barely holding himself together.

“Your stubbornness is as legendary as your magic, my prince, but you are no use to her if you collapse from exhaustion,” came another voice—calmer, firmer. Eir. The palace healer. 

“I am fine.”

“No, you are not,” Eir snapped, voice edged with rare irritation. “You have not eaten. You have not slept. You have been here for seven days. Do you truly believe she would want to wake up only to find you on the brink of ruin?”

Seven days.

You inhaled sharply. He’s been here for seven days?

The room fell silent.

Then, Loki’s voice, quieter this time. Strained. “She nearly died.”

“I know,” Eir replied, the earlier sharpness gone, replaced by something softer. “But she did not. You saved her.”

Loki let out a hollow laugh. “Did I?” A pause. “She was bleeding out in my arms, and I—I could do nothing.”

Your chest tightened.

“I could only watch,” Loki continued, voice hoarse, as if dragged from somewhere deep. “Watch and... beg.”

The weight of those words settled between them.

Eir sighed. “She is strong. She will recover.”

Loki didn’t reply.

“You should see the children,” Eir tried again, gentler now. “They ask for you. They miss their father.”

A sharp inhale. Then, after a long moment—“I cannot leave her, the children will understand—“

Frustration seeped into Eir’s voice again. “They are merely children, Loki. You cannot help her if you drive yourself to the grave, either.”

“I said—”

“Loki.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper, weak and raspy, but it was enough.

The room fell utterly silent.

Then, in an instant, Loki was there.

His hands hovered over you, hesitant, uncertain—like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he deserved to.

“You—” His breath hitched, eyes scanning your face as if afraid you would disappear. “You’re awake.”

You swallowed, nodding slightly. “And you need rest.”

A sharp exhale, part relief, part frustration. “You would lecture me the moment you open your eyes.”

Despite everything, your lips twitched. “Someone has to.”

Eir huffed. “See? Even the princess agrees with me.”

Loki shot her a glare but said nothing.

You let out a shaky breath. “Go, Loki.”

His brows furrowed, jaw tightening. “No.”

“Husband.”

He flinched.

And for the first time, you saw it clearly—the exhaustion weighing on him, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his normally pristine attire was wrinkled and undone.

He looked wrecked.

Your heart ached.

“I am not leaving you,” he said again, but this time, it was quieter. Almost pleading.

Your fingers twitched, reaching out. He caught your hand instantly, as if he had been waiting for it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

Something in his expression cracked.

Eir, sensing the shift, sighed. “Rest, my prince. Eat. I swear upon the Allmother herself, if you collapse in my infirmary, I will personally make sure you regret it.”

Loki scoffed, but his grip on your hand tightened.

You squeezed back, as much strength as you could muster. “Please.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment—then, finally, he nodded.

“Fine.”

Eir looked far too pleased, but you barely noticed.

Because when Loki pressed a kiss to your knuckles—soft, lingering, almost desperate—you knew.

Knew that, no matter how long it took, no matter how much stubbornness or silence lay between you—

He would come back to you.

The afternoon sun filtered through the grand windows, bathing the room in soft golden light. The warmth of the covers wrapped around you like a protective cocoon as you lay propped against the pillows, watching your children chatter excitedly at your bedside.

“—and then Uncle Thor said he could throw his hammer all the way across the kingdom!” one of them exclaimed, eyes wide with wonder.

The younger one gasped. “Did he really?”

You hummed in amusement, brushing a hand through their hair. “He does like to show off, doesn’t he?”

They giggled, and for a moment, all was well.

Then, the door creaked open.

Loki stepped inside, his tall frame casting a shadow across the floor. He was dressed in his usual black and green, but something was different. His shoulders weren’t as tense, his expression not as unreadable.

And in his hands—

Your breath caught.

It was your book. The one you had read countless times, the one you had thought he never noticed. The spine was worn, the pages slightly creased from the many nights you had held it close, lost in its words.

You swallowed hard, your gaze flickering up to meet his.

He knew.

He had always known.

Loki cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “May I have a moment alone with your mother?”

The children groaned in unison.

“Do you have to?” the older one complained, crossing their arms.

“You’ve had her all week,” the younger one added stubbornly. “It’s our turn now.”

Loki sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I see your mother has passed on her defiance.”

You smiled softly, though your heart ached at the thought of them leaving. “I promise I’ll see you before bed.”

They still pouted, but at your gentle insistence, they relented. You turned toward the door. “Could one of the servants come fetch them?”

A maid appeared quickly, offering a warm smile as she ushered them away. Their complaints faded down the hall, and soon, it was just the two of you.

Silence settled, thick and uncertain.

Loki’s fingers tightened around the book before he finally moved, his steps slow and deliberate. He placed it upon the nightstand with measured precision, his hesitation betraying an unspoken weight upon his shoulders.

“I did not know you paid such attention to my books,” you murmured, your voice soft yet uncertain.

His gaze met yours, something unreadable lingering in his emerald depths. “I pay attention to you.”

Your breath faltered, fingers twisting in the sheets.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair before settling into the chair beside you. “I have wronged you,” he admitted at last, his voice low, edged with regret. “In more ways than I can count.” His jaw tensed. “I should have—” He stopped, shaking his head. “There are many things I ought to have done differently.”

You swallowed. “Loki—”

“No.” His tone was firm, yet not unkind. “Allow me to say this.”

You nodded, heart hammering within your chest.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his knees, his fingers laced together in contemplation. “I thought to protect you,” he said. “By keeping my distance. By not—” He exhaled slowly. “By not allowing myself to feel too much.”

You frowned. “Too much?”

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “I convinced myself that if I feigned indifference, it would become truth. That you would not matter.” His jaw clenched, the muscles twitching. “But then I held you in my arms, your blood staining my hands, and I—”

His voice wavered.

Your heart ached at the sight of him—so composed in the eyes of the world, yet so unravelled before you.

Cautiously, you reached for his hand. He stiffened at first, as if startled by the gesture, but then—

He grasped it.

Tightly.

Desperately.

“I do not know what love is meant to feel like,” he confessed, voice scarcely above a whisper. “But I know this—I was undone at the thought of losing you.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “Loki—”

Yet doubt, cruel and relentless, still clung to you.

You withdrew your hand.

Loki’s fingers curled into a fist.

“You speak that now,” you murmured, voice fragile, uncertain. “But how am I to believe you?”

His brows furrowed, confusion darkening his gaze. “What do you mean?”

You forced yourself to look at him. “You were never here, Loki. And on the rare nights you were, it was as though you were absent still.” Your voice wavered, but you pressed on. “I convinced myself it was because you did not love me. That you never had.” You swallowed thickly. “Yet, in truth? In truth, I feared there was another.”

His entire body went rigid. “What?”

“You vanished each night. You never told me where you went. And when I ceased asking, you let me.” A bitter laugh escaped you, hollow and aching. “What was I to think?”

Silence.

Loki stared at you, his expression unreadable, but his knuckles had gone white from how tightly he clenched his hands.

Then—

His chair scraped against the floor as he abruptly stood.

“You believe I have betrayed you?” His voice was low, dangerous—but beneath it lay something raw.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze despite the fear twisting in your stomach. “Did you not?”

Loki inhaled sharply, as though struck. “No.” He raked a hand through his hair, his movements sharp, frustrated. “By the Norns, never.”

He turned back to you, emerald eyes ablaze with anger and anguish. “I have taken no other to my bed, nor to my heart. Not once.” His voice hardened. “I may have been a fool, but I have never been faithless.”

Your breath hitched, but doubt still lingered. “Then where did you go?”

His jaw clenched. “Does it matter?”

You let out a broken laugh. “Of course it does, Loki! You ask me to trust you, yet you keep your secrets still.”

Another tense silence. Then, finally, he exhaled, shoulders sagging.

“I sought a way to dissolve this… marriage.”

The breath left your lungs.

Loki did not meet your gaze when he spoke again. “I deemed it a kindness,” he admitted. “If I could find a means to free you—without shame, without dishonor—you would be happy.” His voice grew rough. “You would not be bound to a man unworthy of you. Someone who knows how to love you the way you deserved.”

Tears burned at your eyes. “You thought I wanted to leave?”

Loki let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Did you not?”

Your lip trembled. “No.”

His head snapped up, eyes searching yours desperately.

“I wanted you, Loki,” you whispered. “Always you.”

His face crumpled, and for the first time, you saw it—regret. The years of distance, of silence, of misguided attempts to spare you pain.

Slowly, hesitantly, Loki knelt beside your bed, his hands grasping yours as though anchoring himself to you. “I swear to you,” he murmured, his voice barely holding steady. “There was never another. There never will be.”

Your heart twisted painfully, warring between the ache of the past and the fragile hope before you.

Loki’s grip on you tightened. “I do not know how to love you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand. “But I will try. If you allow me.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his skin, the weight of his presence. The man who had once been an untouchable shadow was now pleading to stay.

And despite everything—despite the pain, despite the years of uncertainty—

You wanted to let him.

like i said, i don't condone cheating. hope you enjoyed! likes, comments, and reposts are much appreciated <3

[pursued-by-the-squid]

viii. check your footing

pairing: gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 13.9k

ao3 | masterlist

That could have been you. It should have been you. You glance over up Gi-hun as he shuffles inside the player room just ahead, his head and shoulders hanging unbearably low. You almost wish it had been you.

Fuck, that’s a lie, no you don’t. You’re so relieved to be alive that it clouds your vision and chokes your lungs. You want to drop onto your knees and praise the universe for allowing you to live. But then you remember how desperate you’d been to save Jun-hee’s life and the life of her child, the way you’d looked up at Gi-hun and told him without words that you were terrified to leave him because it might mean you’d die alone, without him. Jung-bae only left because of you.

You killed him. It’s your fault he’s dead.

You can’t help feeling like you’ve killed Gi-hun too. The man you see now is unlike anyone you’ve ever known before. Despair clings to him like a second skin. Every time you think he’s finally stopped crying, his shoulders ripple and he doubles over with another sob. He is shattered beyond belief and you don’t blame him for that, you never could, but you still feel like every gut-wrenching gasp and every tear is only there because you were selfish enough to put your life and the life of a stranger before Jung-bae’s.

No one speaks. What can they say? Any apologies or sympathies for Gi-hun’s sorrow will only come out hollow, a nicety without any real value because none of you knew Jung-bae like he does. Did. Because he’s dead. Oh God.

Young-il takes a seat immediately next to you, his leg pressed against yours with a shock of warmth. You can feel how heavy his gaze is without even looking at him, can feel him studying you and you don’t even know why. You don’t have the heart to ask.

Several long minutes go by. “Why don’t you go to him?” he murmurs.

A quick glance in Gi-hun’s direction tells you exactly why you shouldn’t. He’s huddled up against the nearest stable surface with a hand over his eyes as he cries, his body curling in on itself until he looks more like a child than the man you know. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s your fault.

Because I killed him, you think. Because it should’ve been me. Why would he want to even speak to me after what I’ve done?

You shake your head. “I don’t think it would help.”

“Don’t you?” Young-il rests a hand on your knee. “You’re his friend, [___]. Maybe he needs you.”

Guilt streaks across your soul and you wrench your leg away from him with a grimace. “I’m the reason he’s dead,” you growl, your voice rasping as you drop it as low it will go. “I-I can’t–.”

Sorrow wells up inside you until you’re choking on it. You were too shocked to cry before, too busy trying to keep Gi-hun from dragging the entire team across the arena or getting a gun to the head for disobeying orders to worry about crying. But now with the freedom of space and time, your guilt is bubbling over and threatening to spill down your cheeks.

There’s a beat of silence where you’re struggling to maintain your composure and Young-il just… sits there. His hand hovers uncertainly between you. Maybe he’s realizing you’re right, that you are the reason for Jung-bae’s death. Maybe he’s regretting now the choice to ever befriend you, just like you’re sure that Gi-hun is.

And then, finally, he’s wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a side embrace. “It wasn’t your fault,” he hums.

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.” He squeezes his arm a little tighter. “Jung-bae-ssi made his choice. He chose to find another team and… his team lost. It’s unfortunate, yes, but it isn’t your fault.”

You suppose that’s his way of trying to comfort you – find the logic in the situation and accept it – but it doesn’t work for you like it does for him. Because you can still see the shape of Jung-bae’s body on the floor. You can still see his blood. You can still hear Gi-hun screaming in the back of your mind.

You sniffle lightly into your hands. “Then why do I feel like it is?”

He’ll tell you something poetic and charming, you think, about how you’re a kind soul who cares too deeply. That’s what anyone else would say were they in his shoes. Whether he genuinely believes that or not, though, you have no real idea because Young-il decides instead to curve his hand over the shell of your ear, brushing some of your hair away from your face.

“Give Gi-hun-ssi the space to mourn, hm?” You’re so stunned by the gentle lilt of his voice and the vulnerability of the gesture that you can hardly breathe. “He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

His tenderness leaves you fluttering amid the swirling maelstrom of your emotions. It feels so out of place, so inherently wrong, to accept a kind word and gentle touch after all the death you’ve witnessed. Where was Jung-bae’s tenderness? Where was the mercy he deserved and what makes you worthy enough to live in his place?

You aren’t even afforded the chance to antagonize yourself on the matter further because the doors at the front of the room suddenly open, revealing several of the pink soldiers. 255 of the original 457 players remain, as reflected on the scoreboard above. More money is added to the pig’s belly – 20.1 billion won now and nearly 79 million won per person. The amount is staggering in your mind, even after years of receiving Gi-hun’s financial boons.

Yet so many players are unhappy with these results. It’s too little bloodshed, they complain, and not enough money. How are they meant to pay off their debts with such a small amount? How are they meant to survive in the cold, cruel world outside these games with only 79 million won?

Standing tall and unwavering beneath the scoreboard, Square Mask surveys the room. Cold and detached. “I completely understand your disappointment,” he says cooly. You wonder if he feels anything under that mask, if he feels any sympathy for the people he’s helped to slaughter or if he’s truly as soulless as he appears. “However, we always keep the door open for you to pursue new opportunities. You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not.”

Chatter starts among the players as they lean in and whisper to one another. You can see the greed in their eyes.

“Whether to continue the games for a bigger prize or to stop here is entirely your choice. Please feel free to exercise your right to choose in a democratic manner.”

Gi-hun is still shaking. His sobs have quieted until they’re nothing more than sharp inhalations, quickening and slowing unpredictably. It breaks your heart all over again. How can they force him to endure another tedious round of voting when he hasn’t even had the chance to recover from the shock of Jung-bae’s death? A single look is all it takes to tell you that the man can hardly stand on his own feet.

“Ah, Y-Young-il-ssi?” The sound of Dae-ho’s voice draws you from your thoughts. He’s approached the stair that you and Young-il are both perched upon, with his hands drawn together over his stomach as he fidgets. He nods his head politely. “Are you going to vote O again, sir?”

What remains of your little team – just you and Jun-hee now that Jung-bae is… – shifts its attention to Young-il, each of you curious to see his response. He’d said it was his business that was in trouble. Is he as desperate as the rest of these players? Is he willing to stay for another game even now?

He presses a hand flat over his breast where the blue O patch sits and he grimaces. “Don’t worry,” he sighs, “I want to stop here.”

And it’s such a relief to hear. If he were to choose to vote O again, the betrayal would be too much for you to bear. “We’re all agreed, then?” You glance between the four of you without drawing any further attention to Gi-hun. You think that Young-il might be right, space may be exactly what he needs right now.

Jun-hee nods with a hand rubbing over the swell of her belly. Dae-ho looks from her to you, his expression sweet but tinted with grief. And finally Young-il, his mouth drawn tight as he watches you.

“For Jung-bae, then?”

Dae-ho sticks out his hand, palm down. “For Jung-bae,” he agrees. Your hand claps softly atop Dae-ho’s, followed immediately by Jun-hee and a slightly hesitant Young-il. “Victory at all costs,” he murmurs, and it’s far from the battle cry it had once been on the rainbow track.

Victory. You’re not sure if that’s even possible anymore, but you have to try. For Jung-bae and Gi-hun, you must.

Last time, the vote had been considerably close. Young-il had been the one to tip the scales, but there had still been a decent chance of you and Gi-hun returning home. This time, there is no such chance. With so many players distraught over the low amount of money they’ll receive, a lot of them are opting to vote O. Vote after vote rolls in and the number for the O’s ticks higher and higher.

You keep expecting Gi-hun to do something, say something. He’d been so full of fire just yesterday. He had pleaded and shouted and explained until a soldier was forced to ram their gun into the back of his head just to shut him up. But there is no such fire tonight. You look into his eyes and find that nothing looks back. Even after his tears have dried, Gi-hun’s eyes are glassy and distant.

If he won’t speak up, then who will?

You catch Young-il’s gaze from across the room. Being the first to cast his vote has placed him in the very center of the allotted X space, which feels an entire galaxy away from you right now. You want desperately for someone to lean on, someone to make you feel safe amid the unknown and the chaos and the death, and putting that burden onto Gi-hun is simply inconceivable.

Have hope, you imagine him saying, though really you can’t be sure if that’s what he’s thinking or not. Maybe he’s laughing at you and your desperation for hope. Maybe he’s already accepted his fate, as Gi-hun seems to.

You don’t want to accept it, though. You’re not ready for another game, another opportunity to lose Gi-hun or your own life or even Young-il. And what of Dae-ho and Jun-hee? Hyun-ju? The sweet mother and her son? What will happen to all of them if another game is played and the odds aren’t in their favor? How many Jung-bae’s can you stomach before you lose yourself to the horror of it all?

“Gi-hun?” You take the seat beside him, careful to leave enough room between your bodies in case he feels overwhelmed by your presence. But you have to try. “Gi-hun, shouldn’t we do something?”

The next player is called up, Player 100, and you glance away from Gi-hun only long enough to cast a scowl in 100’s direction. He can’t see it, of course, but it’s the principal of the thing. The O vote ticks up by one.

Gi-hun is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t move. You’re not even sure if he’s breathing, actually. He just sits there like a corpse that’s been arranged to look slightly alive. An ancient memory of the ddakji businessman sprawled out on Gi-hun’s chair, the very chair you’d sat in a hundred times until that night, comes to mind and you try not to hurl.

You place a hand on his arm, if only to prove to yourself that he’s still alive. “Gi-hun, I… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to-.” There’s a lump in your throat that won’t go down and it keeps choking you every time you speak more than a few words. “Please. We have to do something. I don’t want anyone else to die here.” I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to lose you.

There’s a moment where you think he might be moved to act because he blinks, and his eyes settle on you, and you think you see a moment of clarity peering out from behind the mist of his agony. But it’s only a passing thing.

“Player 120.”

Hyun-ju. You find yourself peering over the heads of other players to watch her cast her vote, hoping that someone as kind as her might finally be moved to act sensibly. She lingers before the podium, like so many before her, before finally voting 0 and you wonder what it is specifically that gives her pause. What is she facing in the real world that makes her think she has to endanger her life and yours just to survive?

It’s the money, you realize. Everyone here needs money but they’re so adamant that 79 million won each isn’t enough to live with. But what if… what if there was a way to add more money to the pot without anyone dying?

Player 124 is called forth – Thanos’ accomplice from last night’s fight. He has no qualms about voting to stay, which you suppose shouldn’t surprise you, but it’s what he does after the vote that does. He lingers near the podium and watches as Player 125 approaches. Player 125 who, if you’d seen correctly, bears an X patch. Player 125 who hesitates over his choices, who turns to see 124 staring at him through mock-binoculars. Player 125 who votes O with shaking hands and a shameful expression.

People are being coerced, whether they need the money or not, because the desperate players are just that desperate. So what if you eliminated that need? What if you contributed more money to the pot and convinced even a single player that voting O isn’t necessary to be saved?

Once last glance at Gi-hun’s sunken, tear-stained cheeks is enough to give you the courage you need. You stand so quickly that it nearly throws you off balance. As you push your way through the crowd, you try not to think of all those eyes – hundreds and hundreds of them – staring you down, judging you, praying for your downfall so that they might prosper. You try to think only of Jung-bae and the already festering wound his death has left behind.

Your feet have hardly touched the bottom step when Young-il suddenly bursts from the crowd of X voters with a shout. “Are you all out of your minds?” The red and blue lights cast him in a soft violet hue, entirely at odds with the incredulous despair that ravages his voice. “You still want to keep going after watching all those people die? Who's to say you won't die in the next game?”

For a long, long moment, you simply watch him. You’re almost transfixed. There’s something about him that’s catching you off-guard, something a little too similar to Gi-hun and still so entirely Young-il that gives you pause. Was Jung-bae’s death really enough to move him this deeply? To change his entire mindset?

He gestures angrily to the undecided voters you stand among. “We have to stop. We'll all die if we keep going! Come to your senses and leave with that money. You've got to survive first, or there won't be a next step.”

Player 100 breaks from his group and your immediate reaction is to gag because you hate him. You hate the way he spoke to Gi-hun before the game. You hate the way he holds all life in contempt except his own. You hate his pompous attitude and his stupid hair, and you hate the way that he looks at Young-il like he’s not even worth the air he breathes. “What do you think we can do with a mere 79 million?” he questions. “I don't know how much you owe, but for most people here that doesn't even cover 10% of their debt. Am I right?”

It's the overwhelming cry of agreement that has you finally daring to be bold, to raise your voice above the cacophony. For Gi-hun. For Jung-bae! “What if you had more than 79 million?” And this time, you’re sure most or all 255 sets of eyes are focused on you and only you. Player 100 and Young-il both look at you as if you’ve grown a second head. “Gi-hun and I… Player 456, I mean. Neither of us needs the money. We’d both be willing to forfeit our share and contribute it to the total if the rest of the players all vote X.”

Both his worth and yours would total to 200 million won. You’re not sure how much that would add to each player’s take home amount, but it has to be worth something, doesn’t it?

More players stop and look at you, while others start whispering to their neighbors. More and more eyes swivel and land on you, pinning you in place until you start to feel like a bug caught beneath a microscope. They’re pulling your legs off one by one, trying to see what interesting things you’ll do when the pain becomes too much.

Young-il is on you in an instant, grabbing you by the arm and yanking you to him so no one else can hear. “What are you doing?” he whispers, though there’s nothing soft about it. He’s all harsh lines and rippling confusion.

Isn’t it obvious? “I’m trying to save people.”

But before he can question you further, 100 interjects, drawing the focus back to him as he continues spouting greedy, inhumane nonsense. “Your money isn’t enough,” he sneers. “I have 10 billion in debt! What can you give me to take care of it, huh?”

Young-il’s teeth glisten in the violet-red light. “Step back,” he utters, his hand still tightly squeezed around your bicep.

“Young-il-nim.” You press a hand to his chest to calm him. Because you need to do this, you need to try. If Gi-hun can’t fight anymore, then who else will stand up for him? “It’s alright.”

“[___]–”

“I don’t have 10 billion won just lying around to give you, sir,” you explain to 100. He stands nearby with his chest puffed out and his mouth wrinkled into a frown, thoroughly unimpressed. “But I do have 2 billion won that I would be willing to share with everyone here. If the rest of us all vote X.”

“If you have so much money, then what are you here for? Are you a spy sent from the people who run this place, huh? Like your friend?”

Rage the likes you’ve never known before floods your system. How dare he drag Gi-hun into this after the way he treated him today. “It doesn’t matter why I have that money; it’s mine to do with as I please.”

A slightly younger player hanging just behind 100 smirks, though you can’t see his number clearly. “Trying to help your boyfriend?” he snorts, and several of his assorted cronies snicker in tandem.

“I’m trying to save innocent lives, but I wouldn’t expect a sick motherfucker like you to understand the concept.” And before 100 or his friend can retort further or press you for more answers you aren’t able to give, you turn your attention to the undecided players. Young-il’s hand falls away almost without notice. “I’m willing to forfeit all the money I’m worth in these games, plus my two billion, if all of you will vote X.”

The players devolve into scattered murmurs that ripple through the crowd, “two billion?” and “that’s at least seven million more a person” being the loudest and most distinct among them. Already you can tell that the shift in numbers has started to convince a few people. For players like 100, you know it won’t be enough, but you hope that for others it will be the push that they need to vote appropriately. No more people should have to die, not for something as soulless and brutal as cold, hard cash.

“Player 457.” Square Mask is staring at you from behind the podium. While several other players, including 100, have already taken to arguing in favor of an O vote, you can suddenly feel the weight of hidden eyes settling on your skin. “You are disrupting the democratic process of this vote.”

“Me?!” What about the others? What about Young-il and 100?

You’re already starting to gesture to the other players when you spot one of the guards at the far end of the room lift his gun. The pink suit and black mask cut easily through the crowd, quieting all dissenting voices until there is only silence, the sound of your labored, frantic breathing, and your feet slapping on the floor as you pinwheel backward.

“As was established during the previous vote, interruptions in each player’s right to express themselves democratically will not be tolerated.” You find yourself stumbling over other people’s feet and slamming into unknown bodies in your desperation to back away before the soldier can advance any further. “All requests to forfeit the Games will result in instant disqualification.”

So, death. They’re gonna shoot you because you tried to forfeit. Why the fuck didn’t you think of that before you went and opened your big mouth?

“I take it back, I take it back!” You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for a bullet that never comes.

The gun never fires, but even if it had, it would’ve had to go through both Young-il and Gi-hun to reach you. Young-il, you realize after several moments of terrifying silence, has stepped into the guard’s path. And Gi-hun… You’d thought he was still barricading himself in the far corner, drowning in his sorrows, but he isn’t. He’s here, standing as tall as his weary body can withstand as he shoulders his way directly in front of you.

He doesn’t move. The voting continues, albeit dotted with various attempted chants to play one more game, but Gi-hun remains steadfast. His shoulders quiver, but he stays. Players shove into you as they pass or they grant you a scowl when their number is called, yet Gi-hun is there, unfaltering and strong even in the rising defeat that marks itself on the scoreboard.

Your vote and his don’t even matter by the end. The O team is at least 20 votes ahead of you. You lost, and it feels like Jung-bae’s dying all over again.

You should’ve done more. There should have been some other way to change minds and win people over to your side, but you’d seen the barrel of the pink soldier’s gun and had cowered behind the first solid thing you could shield yourself with. You’d let them beat you down. It’s just that being brave is so much easier when you’re not staring down the very weapon that could end your life. Being brave is a bolder inclination when the moment has passed and all that’s left to do is torture yourself over what-if’s.

“That was very foolish of you.”

You and Gi-hun turn in tandem toward Young-il’s voice. The disappointment you hear creeping into the edges of his condemnation feels like a slap in the face. “I was trying to do the right thing,” you explain, though you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes when you do.

“And instead, you’ve put a target on your back.”

That hadn’t been your intention. It hadn’t even been a possibility in your mind. “I’m sorry, I… I was just trying to do what I thought Gi-hun would do.” And why does it feel like such an embarrassing thing to admit? “That’s why he’s here. To save people, so I thought–”

There’s a muscle along the bottom ridge of Young-il’s jaw that clenches before he speaks. “Gi-hun-ssi has played these Games before, [___]. You haven’t. And you very nearly got yourself shot because of it.”

Is that why he’s so upset? Because he’d felt the need to step in the path of a potential bullet in the hopes of protecting you? Because he’d risked his life for yours and he wishes now that he hadn’t?

Perhaps Young-il has a touch of telepathy about him, or perhaps you’re the most emotionally transparent person on the planet, but either way, Young-il seems to realize that you’re confused and wounded by his sudden flash of frustration. He seems to wrestle with himself for a bit before finally relenting, allowing his restraint to drift away with a heavy exhalation before he finally decides to approach you.

“What you did was admirable,” he admits, and he takes one of your hands as he does. “Foolish, yes, but admirable, and I don’t fault you for it. But it was also reckless.”

On that, you suppose you can agree. “I know.”

Young-il sighs again, lighter this time, but his body is still tense. “You aren’t a hero, [___]. That isn’t what you need to be.”

Gi-hun still lingers somewhere behind you, frozen in the same place he’d stood when you had cast your vote. Does he feel the same, you wonder, or does he wish you’d made a more decisive stand? Do your actions, however reckless and foolish they might have been, make up for Jung-bae’s death, or were they pointless from the start?

He lowers his voice suddenly and when you blink, Young-il is leaning in so his forehead nearly brushes against yours. “We have a Seong Gi-hun already,” he breathes, and is it your imagination, or does this feel more intimate than every moment shared with him over the past few years? “We don’t need another.”

Dinner has long since ended by the time Dae-ho and Young-il decide to depart for a bathroom break. You’re not comfortable leaving Gi-hun on his own and Jun-hee seems more inclined to curl up in her bed for a bit, rather than sit and stew in the awkward silence that Gi-hun carries with him, so it’s just the two of you now. It’s both familiar and foreign.

Mealtimes have always been special for you, at least when it comes to him. All those corner store stops, all the ramyeon cups stacked high in his trash bin and the take-out containers in the firing range, they’ve always meant security for you. They’ve always meant Gi-hun.

But it doesn’t feel like that anymore. Now, mealtime feels uncomfortable and sickening. It doesn’t help that the soldiers aren’t giving any of you enough food, and it doesn’t help that when you twist your feet just right, you catch a glimpse of blood on your soles and your appetite is gutted.

“You really should eat something,” you say, even though you know there’s no point. Gi-hun’s too far gone to do much of anything right now. Still, you have to at least try. A gentle prod against his shoulder draws his attention just long enough to display the remainder of your dinner. “Here. I saved some of mine, in case you get hungry later.”

You know you’re going to be hungry yourself later tonight, but you’re more worried about him. He’s mourning. He deserves something good to eat so that at least a part of him isn’t in constant agony. But there’s nothing. No “you’re wasting your time”, no “go fuck yourself”, not even a “I wish it had been you instead”. Not a single word.

Isn’t he angry? Doesn’t he want to hit you or something? You almost wish he would because surely enduring his rage would be less painful than staring into the empty, sunken eyes of the husk he’s become.

“Gi-hun, please. Talk to me?”

It feels like the birth, life, and death of galaxies takes place in the time it takes him to respond. His lips part – chapped, swollen, and indented where his teeth have worried at the same spot for too long – and he sighs. “What would you like me to say?”

And suddenly, you’re leaning in faster than you can stop yourself, your fingers curling loosely over his wrist so he can’t escape you. “Anything. Anything you want, it doesn’t matter.”

“He was my friend.”

You nod lightly. I know, you want to say. I wanted to know him better. But you know you shouldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right because this isn’t about you or your feelings, this is about him. This is about trying to fix something so irreparably damaged that you don’t actually know if anything you’re doing is a help or a hindrance.

Gi-hun pulls his hand away. “There’s nothing else to say.”

“Gi-hun.” He looks like a stranger when the lights hit his face. Even the way he stands has changed; he’s stiffer, less fluid, his movements sharp and jagged. But that’s not what worries you – it’s the fact that he’s trying to leave. “Gi-hun?”

The steps creak lightly beneath and behind you. You reach out as you stumble to your feet, eager to bring him back from the metaphorical edge, but are almost immediately cut off. “Hey, 457!”

You don’t recognize the voice and they clearly don’t know who you are, so you decide right then and there that you don’t care who it is. Gi-hun is more important. It would just be nice if he wasn’t trying to run away from you right now.

“Gi-hun, wait.” You nearly trip over your own foot trying to run up the steps after him. “Gi-hun!”

Footsteps fall heavy on the stairs behind you, followed by a hand on your elbow, and you whirl around with a glare. “Can I help you?” For once, you don’t give a single shit if you sound rude.

Player 124 stands on the step just below yours. “You’re the one with the two billion, aren’t you?”

God, seriously? You’re in the middle of trying to chase after your best friend to make sure he doesn’t do something reckless and this guy’s worrying about fucking money? You roll your eyes and you don’t bother to hide it. Fuck this guy and fuck every other player in here who bears the same poisonous O patch on their chests.

“The offer’s not on the table anymore, sorry.”

He yanks hard where he’s gripping your elbow when you attempt to free yourself and steers you around so you’re stumbling down to his level. At first, you think he’s just trying to detain you. Intimidate you, probably. Quite frankly, you don’t give a shit about that either. You’re not above throwing a smack or two after the day you’ve had. But when you try to tear yourself away, you find yourself backing into something tall, broad, and solid. The overwhelming scent of sweat and two or three-day old cologne floods your senses until you nearly choke.

“Woah, hey, where d’you think you’re going, man?”

Because of course. It isn’t bad enough that Jung-bae is dead and Gi-hun is utterly unrecognizable in his grief, oh no. No, you just had to go and open your stupid mouth, didn’t you? Had to go and say something idiotic like “I’ll give everyone free money if you let me go home”. You don’t even have the right to be surprised anymore.

The smile you force onto your face is more grimace than anything else, but again – you don’t really care. You’re not in the mood and you don’t have the time for this. “Thanos, right?”

A shock of purple hair comes into view as he steps out from behind you, grinning ear to ear. “The one and only.”

“Look guys, I’m not interested in… whatever this is. Your vote won, so I’m not feeling very generous anymore.”

But Thanos only shakes his head. “Oh, no, no, no, man, that’s not it at all!” He brushes you off like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t take you seriously – and he probably doesn’t, but that suits you just fine because you can’t take him seriously either. “We just want in on your little industry, or whatever the fuck.”

“I…” Industry? What, he thinks you run some kind of underground criminal empire? “What are you talking about?”

There’s a flash of color on his nails when he flutters his fingers at you, each one a perfect match for the fucking infinity stones. What a fucking joke. “You know, however you got that two billion.” He wiggles his eyebrows when he leans in to get a closer look at you. “You running a drug ring or something? Because I know a thing or two about that.”

You’re so massively dumbfounded by the accusation that it takes you several very long, very agonizing seconds to find your voice again. “What about me makes you think I run a fucking drug ring?”

“I dunno,” he drawls in a lazy attempt at English, “maybe ‘cause of all that money you were bragging about.”

“I wasn’t bragging–”

“Sure sounded like it to me.” Thanos snaps his fingers and 124 suddenly appears, nearly scaring the crap out of you. You’d kind of forgotten about him. “Nam-su–”

“Nam-gyu,” he corrects with a heavy roll of his eyes.

Thanos just rolls his eyes back, crinkling his mouth until he looks more like a toddler throwing faces across the playground than a grown man. “I said that, man,” he tsks. “Whatever. Nam-gyu, don’t you think 457 was bragging about having a fuckton of money?”

124 – Nam-gyu – juts his chin in your direction, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Yeah, I do. And I think you’re just being greedy now ‘cause you’re pissed you’re not going home yet.”

A dozen different retorts flash through your mind, ranging between “what are you gonna do about it?” and a more level-headed, albeit entirely sarcastic, “let me give you my number and we’ll talk if we all survive this”. You’re debating which one is least likely to get you beaten and bloodied and none of them are particularly encouraging when Nam-gyu suddenly smacks the back of his hand on Thanos’ chest.

“Uh, hey, isn’t that–?”

Thanos suddenly straightens as his eyes shift nervously over some unknown point behind you. His throat bobs noticeably. “Time to go.” To you, he purses his lips, nods, and then he and Nam-gyu are hurrying off like rats scattering in the dark. You don’t fully understand why until you see Young-il.

“Those two bothering you?” he asks. You can hear the unspoken implication, can read it in his face – if there’s a problem, he’ll fix it himself.

You duck your head, smiling just a bit and pretending that you are very much not flushing at his attentiveness. Because Young-il is nothing more than a good friend with a desire to keep you safe and reading into that any further is not only stupid, but entirely inappropriate. For multiple reasons.

“No,” you finally answer, “it’s alright. I’m fine.”

If the touch of his hand at your shoulder causes you to still, or the brush of his knuckles over the curve of your wrist, or the gentle hum of his breath does anything to make you fluster or stare or linger in a way entirely unlike yourself for the rest of the evening, then that’s your own business. You can only hope that no one else, and certainly not Gi-hun, notices it.

The torn-open plastic wrapper and scattered crumbs of bread are nothing compared to the usual offerings left at a funeral, but this is hardly a normal funeral. He supposes that he ought to be moved by it. In a place where people turn on one another like animals and food is scarce, Gi-hun knows that he should be grateful for a moment of peace to remember his last surviving friend. He should be grateful that you sacrificed part of your own meal (if a single round of bread can even be called that) for it. He should be grateful for you because if you hadn’t suggested a vigil, he would have been too lost in his grief to even consider it.

But all Gi-hun can feel is the merciless nothing that consumes him.

He’s vaguely aware of the others shuffling into their beds behind him. Each of them has chosen to believe him and listen to him, and for that he’s thankful. At least he can try to save another few lives. The only question is for how long, if the attempt is even worth trying anymore.

There’s the sound of feet then, and he sits up a little straighter because in that moment, Jung-bae is still alive and they’re back in Ssangmun-dong, sharing a glass of soju. And then he catches your scent and the shape of your silhouette, and reality comes crumbling down all around him. He tries not to be disappointed. He also tries not to feel guilty for being disappointed, but he fails at both. In the end, all he can do is hang his head in remorse.

“Hey,” you say softly.

You’ve been cagey around him since Jung-bae’s death. It’s only been a few hours, but the difference is blatant – your touches are hesitant and dramatically decreased, your body closed off from him, and even your voice sounds different. An attempt at kindness, he thinks. Then why does it grate him so?

Gi-hun doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the gentle huff of an exhalation. You seem to take that as all the permission you need. “You don’t have to take the first watch if you don’t want to. I don’t mind.”

He resigns himself to the fact that a conversation will apparently be necessary. “I’m not tired,” he tells you, drawing his legs to his chest so he can wrap his arms around them. It’s easier to ride each wave of sorrow when he’s compressed into something small like this, when the world can’t reach him.

“Me neither.” Your leg is bouncing – a nervous tick he’s not sure you’re even aware of. “I just thought I’d offer. If it would help.”

The only thing that would help him now is a gun in his hands and the Captain on his knees so he can shoot him through the skull. So he can tear this island down with his bare hands, brick by brick, until there’s nothing left. Only he lost the chance to do so two days ago when the tracker was ripped from his jaw and you were abducted, forced to play these Games simply because your very presence is a constant stab through his heart.

He'll find a way. If it kills him, he’ll find a way to exact the revenge he needs. For Sang-woo, for Jung-bae, and for all the ways you’ve died and been reborn since the Games have started.

Gi-hun takes a deep breath to open up his ribcage and release the tension that’s been coiling in his chest for the past hour. “Get some rest,” he says, and his tongue feels heavy when he does. “You need it.”

A month ago, you might have fought him on it and demanded he get some rest too. Maybe you would have looked at him in that special way, where the light catches your eyes and you smile differently and it leaves him feeling flayed apart, and he might have at last relented. A week ago, he might have asked you to stay the night – so he could keep you close, keep you safe – and you might have even said yes, and Gi-hun would’ve spent the entire night dreaming of possibilities and open-mouthed kisses, and he still would have gone to the club to meet the Captain because at least he would’ve died remembering you.

This time, there is no fight. This time there’s just quiet deference and a weary heart too bruised to beat any longer.

He glares at the crumpled piece of plastic on the step and the pathetic smattering of crumbs that serve as an offering to Jung-bae’s spirit, and he vows never to rest until the game runners and the Captain get exactly what they deserve.

Young-il greets you when you retreat. The lights have gone out by now, shrouding the entire room in darkness bar the glowing X and O on the floor, so he couldn’t turn and watch the interaction even if he wanted to. He doesn’t, of course. What you do in your own time with your own friends is none of his concern. Not even if your friend is rubbing a soothing hand into your shoulder. Not even if your friend is making you laugh. Not even if your friend is… Wait, he’s not urging you to join him, is he? Gi-hun’s misunderstanding him, surely.

He forces as much air into his lungs as he can, holding it in and suppressing the thundering beat of his pulse so he can hear better.

“I don’t want to …,” you whisper sweetly.

Young-il’s voice is similarly softened. “… insist.”

This is pointless. It doesn’t matter how quiet he is, he won’t be able to hear a thing, and since when does it matter? Why is this what he’s choosing to focus on? Where is his rage? Where is his hatred and his fight? Is he truly so fickle that his plans turn to dust the moment you elect to share a bed with another man who, might he remind himself, is married?

Jung-bae is dead, just like Sang-woo. He needs to plan. He needs to organize.

Gi-hun squeezes his eyes shut until they hurt and that, at last, is enough to snap him out of his strange reverie. The Games cannot continue like this. The voting is going horribly and the O players are winning by a higher majority each time, which means that when tomorrow comes and more X players die, the chances of returning home will be almost zero. Not even your naively offered 2 billion won will be enough to change the hearts and minds of the O players who remain.

Your 2 billion… He’d given it to you because he thought he was dying, because he wanted to ensure that you would be able to take care of yourself in his absence. The money is yours now with no strings attached, but he can’t help feeling frustrated that you would be so quick to relinquish it. And for people like these? Drug addicts and dirty tradesmen, gangsters, loan sharks, gamblers.

He feels his own fingernails digging into his palms.

The gambler who had first accepted a smack from the ddakji recruiter and the gambler who stands watch now feel like two very different people. Gi-hun sometimes wonders if he isn’t just a spirit left to wander the Earth in a foreign body, traveling aimlessly, fighting against the ongoing tide of hopelessness and violence that haunts him. He wonders if that’s what Jung-bae saw before he died.

He wonders a lot of things, really. He wonders how things might have gone if Jung-bae had stayed and you had gone. Would you have ended up on the same team? And the pregnant girl – what if she had never asked for help? What if you had never offered? Would his oldest and dearest friend still be alive? Would you be dead in his place?

What if he had never stopped to help you in the first place? Where might your life have led you? Jung-bae might still be alive, or perhaps he would have come to the Games anyway – he supposes he doesn’t know the full extent of Jung-bae’s financial problems and that’s his own fault. He never stuck around to ask. He didn’t want him to know.

He sighs and tilts his head to gaze at the empty space on his left. It’s difficult to articulate why, but he can’t help feeling like Jung-bae ought to be sitting there. They would talk, he thinks, and Gi-hun would try not to engage because he doesn’t want to be distracted, but Jung-bae would insist. And they’d probably laugh over something stupid, or share a tense moment remembering the past, and Gi-hun would remember what it felt like to have a friend who knows you inside and out. He supposes he’ll never know that feeling for the rest of his life, though he’s not certain it matters. He doesn’t expect to live much longer anyway.

If he tries very hard, Gi-hun thinks he can imagine Jung-bae’s face – not the face of a dead man, but of a living soul who always smiles and sometimes drinks too much. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Gi-hun-a, he might have said (though he isn’t entirely sure he’s gotten the inflection right). We’ll grab a soju when this is all done, huh? Just like old times.

Maybe he’ll ask you do it for him. Jung-bae liked you, from what little time he had to acquaint himself, and you clearly feel some amount of affection for him on behalf of their friendship. He stares, misty eyed, at the crinkled plastic wrap and breadcrumbs and he smiles. You’d be more than eager to drink a glass of soju in his honor. That’s one of the things he admires about you – your heart.

It keeps him going long into the night. When his eyelids are finally too tired to stay open, Gi-hun drags himself onto the nearest mattress. If he sees you half weaseled under the nearest bed frame and half exposed, he doesn’t think much of it. If he sees your arms folded under your chin and your face pressed into Young-il’s shoulder, he doesn’t dwell on it. He can’t. It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself.

But if he happens to nudge Young-il awake and ask him to take the next shift, then that’s entirely on purpose and Gi-hun isn’t afraid to admit that to himself. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t wake or stir you except to help maneuver you out of Young-il’s way so the other man can keep watch. You moan softly in your sleep, your face all scrunched up, but quickly fall back into your heavy slumber, and Gi-hun watches. He commits the shape of you to memory.

He's already lost Jung-bae and he’s already lost himself, but he refuses to lose you as well. Not the Captain, not the Games, and not even Young-il can take you from him, of that he is absolutely certain.

The set design is pretty, you suppose – whites and pastels, carousel horses atop a raised platform, and elegant curtains that rise up to the ceiling – but that’s all it is. It’s a design. It isn’t real. It’s a death arena made to look pretty and quaint, accompanied with charming music and a charming announcer, but it’s a death arena all the same.

“Welcome to your third game. The game you will be playing is Mingle. Let me repeat: the game you will be playing is Mingle.”

You glance sideways at Dae-ho, who’s already starting to fidget. “What is it?”

“I think I remember playing this in school,” he frowns. “We’d form groups by hugging each other.”

The announcer seems to further the idea, following Dae-ho’s musings with a more intricate explanation. “When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds.”

A secondary look around fills you with more despair than hope. “This place is massive,” you say, more to yourself, but the rest of the team manages to catch it.

Dae-ho nods in agreement, but he doesn’t look as defeated as you feel. A little nervous, maybe, if the shaking hands he lays on Jun-hee’s shoulders are anything to go by, but still somewhat hopeful. “I believe in us. We all made it through the race, didn’t we?”

Not all of us.

“We just need a strategy,” he continues, surging forward with all the bravado you’ve come to expect from him. His fist shakes eagerly in Young-il and Gi-hun’s general direction. “What do you think? How should we play this?”

The most obvious answer is given first – a five person group won’t require anything more than to run as fast as you possibly can. That, at least, is a relief and you really hope they call five before anything else. Anything larger than that, everyone will work to find another player. Your eyes scan the crowd in search of the familiar 120 on the back of Hyun-ju’s jacket. Maybe you can snag her if you need to.

“No matter what happens,” Young-il says, “don't panic. Let's stay calm. Let's trust each other. We'll all make it out together.” You admire his tenacity and his ability to remain calm even now, before the game has even started.

He extends one arm into the center of the group, palm down. “Here.”

Your hand falls easily atop his, your fingers splaying out as they unconsciously seek the warmth of his skin. Dae-ho comes next, then Jun-hee, and finally Gi-hun. You choose to pretend that Jung-bae is with you all in spirit, too, piling his hand atop his friend’s. His memory lives on in the battle cry that Dae-ho exclaims at the top of his lungs: “Victory at all costs!”

There is a final request from the announcer that each player relocate to the platform, then a flashing of the lights, and then the entire world is turning. You’re nearly jolted off balance, but are caught by a strong hand and a quietly encouraging nod from the player to your left – Hyun-ju! You go to thank her, but find your voice immediately drowned out by the sound of singing as the world keeps spinning.

“Round and round we go! Round and round we go!”

Dread blossoms in the pit of your stomach. Not only are you already feeling lightheaded from the turning of the platform, but the sound of children singing gleefully while you’re dragged to your potential demise is enough to make you actually sick. Rainbow colored doors glide past, round and round, and you have to reach out for Hyun-ju’s arm to keep yourself steady.

The announcer had said to listen for a number. Is the number somewhere in the song? Do you have to listen for it and then run? Will the platform stop? What happens if you fall? It’s too many questions and too much uncertainty. What if this, what if that? How? Why? When?

“Round and round we–.”

The platform grates to a halt and the lights flash out. The announcer’s voice crackles somewhere overhead. “Nine.”

Nine. Nine people? Oh shit, holy shit.

You grab blindly at Hyun-ju’s wrist. “We have five!” you shout over the sudden, raging chaos.

She nods frantically with a flash of her other hand in your face – her fingers are interlocked with another player’s, a young girl who looks about as scared as you feel. “Four!” she calls back. She looks over your shoulder, presumably at Gi-hun and the others. “We have four!”

“That’s nine!” you hear Young-il say. “Everybody run!”

Hyun-ju’s fast. Like, really fast. She practically drags the other girl off the platform, but you’re close behind, following her blindly, desperately, your arms and legs pumping. You’re vaguely aware of Gi-hun shouting directions; “green door!” is really the only thing you hear before you, Hyun-ju, and her friend are all slamming into the wall and scrambling for the handle.

Someone’s shoving at your shoulder. Someone else is urging you to “go, go, go!”. There’s a blur of limbs and concrete and teal green tracksuits, and Hyun-ju rams into the far wall, and somebody’s feet get caught under yours, and then you’re dropping to the floor with a shout as people trip all over you. You curl in on yourself so all your vital organs are protected, your arms thrown over your head, and people are wheezing and whispering, and you can still hear others on the outside as they scream and slam their doors shut, and it’s awful.

“[___].” Your hands are gently pried away from your face to reveal Gi-hun as he bends over you, his face drawn tight with worry. “Come on,” he urges softly.

You go willingly, happily, into his arms and are soon back on your feet, though your legs are about as wobbly as a bowl of ramyeon noodles. He still has a hand on your shoulder when you hear the first round of gunfire. The entire room goes quiet.

You’d figured it would be this way. You’d figured that not finding a room in time would be a death sentence, but it’s a different feeling to actually see it happen, to know that you fought for your own life just a little bit harder than someone else and because of that, they’re being executed.

You think of Jung-bae. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from doing something stupid like screaming.

Someone gets shot directly in front of your door. You know not only because the sound is loud enough to make your ears hurt, but because Gi-hun’s entire body jolts as if he’s just been electrocuted. Did he have to witness things like this the last time, too? Was he locked inside a room and forced to watch while innocent people were slaughtered?

You reach for him on instinct while your own thoughts begin bubbling up within your chest, choking you to the point of desperation, but your hand never finds its mark. Young-il is there quite suddenly, his fingers closing around your wrist as he steps into your path. “Give him space,” he murmurs, as if his wisdom is a kindness he’s imparting to you.

“But–”

His voice drops a bit. “He needs it.” And before you can protest further, Young-il gathers you into his arms and presses his chin atop your head. “It’s alright, [___]. It’s alright.”

The shooting has long since ended by now, but something even worse has taken its place: the beeping of a forklift, the sound of caskets being unloaded and filled with bodies, the slick wetness of boots on fresh blood. It’s worse now than it was yesterday, somehow. Not being able to see makes the suspense weigh heavier on you, it encourages your imagination to run wild.

If you aren’t fast enough next time, that’s going to be you. You’re going to get a hole in your brain and you’re going to be packed up like a sardine in a can, carted away to be disposed of and forgotten about. Young-il hushes your weak little cries with a hand at the back of your head, and you freeze. What if he gets shot? What if something happens and you get separated? What about Gi-hun? And oh God, what about Jun-hee? If she dies, then her baby…

It hits you the moment you step outside. The blood. You don’t even know how many players were killed, you were too busy trying not to dissolve into a huddled, trembling mass of uselessness in Young-il’s arm, but you see at least a dozen separate pools of blood dotting the floor and platform. You know because you step in one almost right away. It’s wet underfoot, no different from stepping in a puddle of water after a rainstorm, but you know the difference. You know what it means.

You can’t let that become you. You can’t let it become any of your friends.

The platform jolts to one side as the music starts up again. “Round and round we go! Round and round we go!”

You can feel the blood squishing under your weight whenever you move. You can feel your knees locking. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel the pulse in your fingertips. You can see each and every bloodstain marking the spot where another person has died so that you might live.

The song cuts off with a clear, concise, “Five”, and then the world narrows to only a single point – freedom.

“Three.”

He’d known the number even before it was announced, of course, but knowing cannot override instinct and his first instinct is to grab you by the collar and drag you into the nearest room. He wouldn’t even need to grab hold of Gi-hun; he already knows that man would follow you to the ends of the Earth and back. Yes, he knows.

But that isn’t what Gi-hun has in mind. “[___], Dae-ho, Jun-hee! Go!” he commands.

Dae-ho and Jun-hee acquiesce without a fight, each of them scrambling to grab one of your hands and pull you to safety, but you recoil before they can even touch you. “No!” You whirl on Gi-hun with a fire blazing in your eyes, bright and brilliant, and for a moment, In-ho finds himself adrift in an endless sea. “I’m not leaving you!”

He should have anticipated your obstinance, perhaps, but it had slipped his mind amid the chaos and the chaotic uncertainty of life versus death. “We don’t have time for this!” he shouts. The clock is counting down too quickly and now the entire team is at risk because you are too stubborn to abandon either of them. In-ho looks to Dae-ho, looks to Jun-hee and the baby growing in her belly, and he feels an uncomfortable prickle of uncertainty. “Both of you, go! Find a third!”

He doesn’t pause long enough to think about whether or not they will survive. “Run!” he bellows, and he propels you forward with a shove, pointing to one of the remaining open doors. He doesn’t wonder about Jun-hee. He doesn’t wonder about her baby. And he doesn’t think of his wife, not in the slightest. All he does is run.

Sharp eyes catalog the remaining players scrambling for life, then the timer counting down. 19 seconds. A trio of men goes tripping over themselves in an effort to push themselves into one of the open doors, the very door In-ho had chosen. It’s the nearest one and one of the last ones still open. Anger flares within his stomach at the audacity of these filthy, greedy trash heaps to take what belongs to him, to think that they could possibly beat him at his own game.

Abandoning you to Gi-hun’s capabilities is not something that worries him. Surging forward and slamming his body into these three players does not worry him either. If one of them escapes into your room, he could live with that. If he gets himself caught and Young-il ‘killed’, he could live with that too. But he cannot risk you, or even Gi-hun, dying because all his plans hinge upon your shared survival. Gi-hun will not die here today and neither will you. Later, perhaps, but not today. Not now.

“Young-il!” he hears you screaming, but he pays it no mind.

He slams his fist into one player’s face, then a brutal kick to another player’s groin.

“Young-il-ssi!”

A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. So, he’s managed to coax Gi-hun into trusting him, has he? Into caring for him? He body slams the third player with a growl before finally choosing to turn and run. The door flies open without him even touching it, and it slams shut behind him at Gi-hun’s insistence.

You’re on him in an instant, your arms wrapping around his neck as you breathe heavily into his ear, your chest heaving and your body pressed so firmly against his that In-ho is sensorily overwhelmed. A memory of your body pressed similarly to his from last night flickers to life in the forefront of his mind and his mouth goes dry.

“Don’t do that again,” you murmur through trembling lips.

Six mattresses in rows of three maneuvered beneath the canopy of bed frames, but only four of them in use. He had seen it on your face as clear as day – the two vacant beds bothered you. After all, one of them belonged to a dead man and the other belonged to a man you no longer recognized. In-ho knew he could fix that for you, or that he could at least distract you from it.

“Here,” he prompted with a palm flat on the mattress next to his.

“Oh, no, that’s alright.” You waved him off as politely as you could, but it did nothing to hide either your surprise or your blatant interest. “I don’t want to crowd you.”

And In-ho had smiled at you without a single hint of his true motives. “I insist.” Just a friend seeking to comfort a friend.

He hadn’t anticipated that keeping you close would make his blood boil and his body flush. It had been another chess piece carefully moved into the most advantageous position, another attempt to worm his way into the bloody gash that Gi-hun’s rejections and absence had carved into your heart, and yet it had left him feeling exposed and restless in an entirely foreign way.

His hands press firmly against your hips as he guides you away. Holding you at arms’ distance allows him the control he seeks, but it also lays bare the most embarrassing weakness he has ever encountered in the last nine years. He uses the blaring of the final few seconds as a distraction, carefully turning you away from the heat straining against his tracksuit pants so you’re none the wiser.

You wander towards Gi-hun, which In-ho can only consider to be a small mercy given the circumstances. “Do you see them?” There is a noticeable edge to your voice as you try pressing in beside him to peer out the window. “Jun-hee? Dae-ho?”

Gi-hun shakes his head, only to bodily flinch and recoil when the shooting starts. You cower like a frightened child with your eyes squeezed shut while Gi-hun remains frozen at the door, his gaze caught on the nameless bodies dropping to the ground. Punishing himself as he has the previous two rounds, impaling himself on a rusted old blade that has killed dozens before him and will likely kill hundreds more after. Doesn’t he ever grow tired of playing the sanctimonious victim?

“Oh God.” In-ho’s eyes flicker back to where you’ve braced yourself against the door, your legs shaking and your eyelids watery as you start to slide to the floor. “Oh God, I killed them, didn’t I?”

Perhaps you did. It would be intriguing, not to mention convenient, if you had because for all your compassion and eagerness to follow in Gi-hun’s footsteps, this round had been the one to break you. Or rather, the lingering memory of Jung-bae’s death and the possibility of losing your dearest friends in a similar fashion had urged you to place his and Gi-hun’s lives before the lives of anyone else. Fear has finally turned you selfish.

You collapse into a pile of limbs and shuddering, breathy noises that go straight to his gut, and suddenly, In-ho is struggling to keep his feet firmly planted in the present.

Sleep had taken its time coming for you. In-ho had offered what kindness he had – a comforting hand resting near your pillow, a soothing phrase, a fleeting smile – and had watched you until you finally drifted off. The camera he’d studied you through on your first night simply could not compare to the physical reality of sharing your breath or feeling your warmth soak into the mattress.

Is this what Gi-hun had witnessed the first night he brought you to his motel?

Grief cannot haunt you in your sleep, he’d soon discovered. Your expression lightened gradually – a twitching eyebrow here or a sigh there – until your entire body was pliant, entirely freed of the horror and shame you’d been clinging to. In-ho was surprised to find himself entranced once more, almost inexplicably so.

And then you’d moved. A subtle shift in your subconscious had urged a small sound from your lips, followed by the rustling of your blanket, and In-ho was left reeling from the weight of your arm pressing against his. It shouldn’t have affected him. Since you met, he’d been forced onto the receiving end of your affections more times than he could count and it had never bothered him before. It was simply the cost of his game, and a remarkably low one, at that.

This is different, he’d realized.

It takes him a moment to regain his bearings and, in that time, he catalogues Gi-hun’s reluctance and self-imposed distance and your trembling desire to be comforted. Both of you suffer from the same failure to hide your emotions in any meaningful way. He takes it as an opportunity, another freshly opened wound for him to press his infection into.

“It’s alright,” he assures you as he lowers himself into a crouch.

Bleary, tearful eyes gaze up at him in desperation. Another bolt of electricity lances through him, stealing his breath, his tongue, and every carefully laid plan until he is nothing more than a blank slate. It’s terrifying. It’s disgusting. He wants to wrap his hands around your throat and throttle you for daring to weaken him so thoroughly, and at the same time, he wants to slam Gi-hun’s skull into the concrete and bash him bloody for destroying his Games, his equalizer.

In-ho studies you for several impossibly long moments before he finally understands. He settles into the small space left between your body and the side wall and curls an arm around your shoulder to draw you close. He feels that same spark inside his chest, that same heat pooling beneath his stomach – the same things he’d felt last night when you mumbled incoherent dreams into his ear and curled into his chest like it’s what you were born to do.

It wasn’t the Games that made Gi-hun his equal. It wasn’t the 45.6 billion won or the innumerable deaths or the trauma that carved itself into both their souls. It was you.

You’ve all survived. You’re not sure how exactly because you were absolutely terrified that you’d lost Jun-hee and Dae-ho in the last round, but they made it and so have you. You would be overjoyed if your sanity wasn’t currently tearing itself apart at the seams. All this running, all the stress and the fear, it’s making your body overheat and your heart race, and the spinning platform is no help either. You tear wildly at the zip of your jacket and start whipping it back and forth, desperate for a moment of relief. Or some water. God, you would kill for some water right now.

“What do you think the next round will be?” you hear Dae-ho ask.

The numbers have been steadily counting down, so your first thought is to guess something small like one or two. Either option would be absolutely devastating because there are still so many players left alive and only 50 rooms to fit them into. But what if it’s a higher number? The Captain, or whoever it is that may have chosen these numbers, might be trying to lull everyone into a false sense of security, make them all plan for a smaller number only to be stuck in the chaos when the number ends up being something insane like 15.

“Everyone pick a partner,” Young-il suggests after several moments. He’s close enough that you can hear him clearly over the music. “If the number is higher, we stick together, and if not–”

The announcer’s voice cuts through it all, sharp and hot like a freshly forged blade. “Two.”

Everything happens in the blink of an eye, yet takes an eternity to live through. Young-il grabs your sleeve and drags you to the edge of the platform as he runs. Your legs are like gelatin, wobbly and uncertain, but there is still determination in your bones and life in your lungs. You’re not going to die here. You are not going to die here!

Another player trips and falls on your left. Someone screams on your right. You keep running. Young-il’s already picked out a door, his arms pumping furiously as he powers forward. He’s shouting too, you think, but it’s swallowed up by the surrounding chaos. Doesn’t matter. Just keep running. Don’t stop. You’re going to survive this.

There’s a flash of movement in the corner of your eye and you turn just in time to see someone with a 400-something number emblazoned on their chest reaching for you. They snag the corner of your jacket, pulling you back, but you’re faster, stronger, you have to be, because you have to live. One arm jerks free of the jacket, then the other, and then you’re tripping over your feet and tumbling through pools of half-dried blood. It smears over your palms, gets into the creases of your elbows, wets the ends of your hair as you skid to a halt.

“Get up!”

You’re already scrambling to your feet. Young-il is screaming so hard that his throat looks misshapen. The 400-something who tripped you is already yanking open the door of the room meant for you and Young-il.

You’re going to die.

Another player tries to run inside and you think for a moment that Young-il might just leave you both to your own devices and take that second spot for himself. You can see the ugly glint in his eye, the same one you know is in yours, that gut-deep, selfish desire to keep living no matter the cost. You run faster than you ever have before. He grabs the other player and throws him to the ground. Your hands slam into the doorframe.

There’s still someone inside. Oh God, there’s still someone in here, and you know what happens when there’s one too many people inside a room. The evidence of it is painted on the walls.

“Get out!” you scream.

The man shakes his head frantically as he crowds himself into the farthest corner. For a moment, it’s you who considers betrayal. You could slam the door shut and lock 400-something’s friend and Young-il outside, and you would be saved. You’d be condemning him to death, but you would live and isn’t that more important?

The timer near the ceiling flashes a gruesome 00:15, accompanied by the intercom, and you hear the door slam shut behind you. Is that it, did you make it?

Young-il’s shoulder bumps into yours and you feel a wave of disappointment. Coward. You’re glad that he’s alive, but if one of you doesn’t leave right now, then you’re all going to die! Murderer.

“Get out!” you scream again, this time lunging forward to grab the man by the arm and shove him in the direction of the door. “Go!”

His friend slams into him just as the door swings open. Young-il surges forward then, landing a punch on 400-something’s jaw that drops him to the floor. Just outside the door. His legs are kicked aside, the door slammed shut, and the lock clicks in place.

00:00

But there’s still three people locked in a two-person room, and that means you’re dead. No. It can’t end like this. You’re not ready. You don’t want to die, you’re not ready to die!

You’re halfway to the door, hoping against hope that if you wiggle the handle hard enough, the lock will give way and you can shove that man into the path of the firing squad, and you can live. Almost at the door, your gaze locked on the face of the man you’ve betrayed as he peers at you through the cut-out, begging to be saved. Hand on the door, pulling with all your strength when you know that it’s futile.

A round of bullets fires. The door jerks on its hinges as Player 400-something sags against it, then slumps to floor, dead. He’s dead. He’s dead and you’re the reason he’s dead, and the guard that shot him is looking at you through the cut-out, his gun still raised.

“No!” you screech.

You drop to your knees, hands on your head as if an extra layer of flesh will spare your skull from being blown wide open, but it’s not just the ground that meets you. Bones crack against hard cement, a wet slap following when your bloodied hands fly out to brace yourself, and the face of the player whose life you’d decided was worth less than yours is tilted unnaturally against the ground a few feet away. His neck bends in a way it shouldn’t. His body is slumped over as if he’s just been tossed aside like garbage. Unblinking. Unmoving.

Dead.

…

Dead?

You sit up, confused. You didn’t hear another round of gunshots. He’s not bleeding and you are still alive, so how is he dead? Why is he dead?

You find the answer sitting with his back against the wall, chest heaving, his eyes pitch-black and endless. The other man’s legs are still caught awkwardly between Young-il’s, almost as if… but no, that can’t be right. He wouldn’t be able to do something like that. Shouldn’t. Couldn’t.

You ask the only question you can find the strength to vocalize. “Is he…?”

Young-il nods with a heavy sigh. His legs are spread and bent at the knee, his elbows braced against his thighs, and his eyes… Deeper and darker than the blackest hole in the farthest reaches of the universe. You look at him, fresh off the murder of another man and utterly unremorseful, and you feel like you’re gazing into the galaxy itself – vast and terrifying and brutal.

There’s a knock at your door, then the flash of a black mesh mask, and you push yourself back into the nearest corner, folding in on yourself until you’re as small as physically possible. “No, don’t, he’s dead! He’s dead!” you cry. “There’s only two of us!”

The guard remains quiet, perhaps waiting for the order from his superior to gun you down like the selfish, cowardly, murdering bastard you are. Young-il nods almost imperceptibly and then, just like that, the guard is gone. And you’re alive. And you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of a precipice with no way down except to jump.

“[___].”

You catch him trying to touch you from the corner of your eye and you recoil as if he were the one with the gun, not the guard. “Don’t touch me,” you gasp. You don’t deserve to be touched. You don’t deserve anything gentle.

It’s clear he doesn’t appreciate your bluntness. His fingers coil around empty air and his face turns hard as it morphs into something cold and distant. The mask of a killer, maybe, because he’s just as bad as you are, isn’t he? He killed that man with his bare hands. And you… you almost locked him out of the room because you wanted to survive so badly.

“I’m sorry,” you weep, your eyes unseeing and stinging as your tears finally overflow. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…” To what, almost sacrifice him for your own good? To be so weak and pathetic that you couldn’t even shove that man out of the room yourself? “It’s my fault.”

That’s the only thing that makes sense, really. Jung-bae died because of you. Jun-hee and Dae-ho almost died because of you. And now Young-il. Now the dead man between his legs and the other one just outside the door. You did this.

The room is horrifyingly quiet for a long while, but when Young-il finally speaks, you find that he sounds like a total stranger. His voice is raw and agonizing. “What are you talking about?”

Your eyes flicker briefly over his face before focusing again on the body before you. You can’t seem to look away. “I should’ve pushed him out,” you whimper. If you had, maybe Young-il wouldn’t have his blood on his hands.

“What?”

He sounds so incredulous, it’s ridiculous. What part of this isn’t he understanding?

“I should’ve pushed him out!” you exclaim. “I was too scared and I wasn’t thinking. I-I just wanted to live and I almost…” I almost killed you.

Metal scrapes against concrete somewhere beyond the door as stacks of caskets are lowered to the ground. Young-il pushes himself onto one knee, his hands hovering non-threateningly around his waist as he studies you, watching you like a scientist might watch a cornered animal. The metaphor is surprisingly apt considering it was in your power to kill him only moments ago.

“[___],” he starts slowly, “take a breath.”

You know he wants to come closer. You know he wants to understand. “No.” You shake your head firmly. “Don’t.”

He pauses. “You’re afraid of me.”

What? “No.” It feels as if all the air has been punched out of you. “Why would I…? Y-You didn’t – I mean, it’s not…”

Young-il creeps forward until he’s close enough to touch you, and this time you don’t stop him. A murderer you both may be, but he is still your friend and you crave the normalcy of a friend right now more than you hate yourself.

His knuckles brush lightly over the back of your hand. “Explain,” he prompts, not unkindly or harshly, but with the gentle confusion of someone with no desire to judge or deride.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” you sob.

“I don’t.”

He’s still not understanding. “But you will.”

The door unlocks before you’re forced to reveal anything more, thank God. Small mercies. You accept Young-il’s offer to help you stand, but you don’t allow yourself to linger in his grasp. You have to get out of this room before you lose it.

“[___]!” Gi-hun’s face falls the instant he lays his eyes on you. You’re not sure where he appeared from so quickly, but you suppose it doesn’t matter when his hands trace wordlessly over your arms, over the blood, the blood, so much blood, and he ducks down to try and catch your eyes. “What happened?”

You’d been so focused on surviving that it hadn’t even occurred to you that his own life had been on the line as well. It hadn’t occurred to you that your dearest friend might actually be dead until you were being ushered out of that room and forced to confront the outside world.

Your brain feels kind of fuzzy right now, so you’re cautious when you shake your head. “’s not mine. I fell.” You’d lost your jacket, too. Is that why you suddenly feel so cold? You’re not sure.

Gi-hun is quick to draw you in, and you’re thankful for the sudden proximity because he’s really the only thing you’re sure of right now. You’re guided back to the platform. The world is off-kilter and strange to you, but you’re the only thing that’s changed. Well, you and Young-il. The two murderers.

You rotate your shoulder so Gi-hun’s hand slips away. You don’t want him to touch you either.

“Clapping our hands together! Singing along as well! La lala lala lala la la la la!”

“Six.”

You’re not sure how it happens. You had meant to grab Gi-hun or Young-il’s hand once the speaker announced the next number, but then the number had been too large to accommodate everyone and there were so many voices layered over each other that you couldn’t hear much of anything. And then you were running, only to realize that it was Dae-ho holding on to you, not Young-il. Not Gi-hun.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Just run. Because you keep thinking about what happened the last time you hesitated and you don’t want to do that again. You can’t watch someone else die because of you.

The first room is already full, and you think you catch a glimpse of Player 100 in there, but Dae-ho pulls you away before you can get a proper look. He’s half dragging, half pushing, guiding you several doors down where Hyun-ju stands with her arms flailing. The mother and son go first, then Dae-ho, then you, until you’re all huddled in the far end of the room, panting.

“Young-mi-a.” You look up to see Hyun-ju at the door, her eyes frantic and wide. “Where’s Young-mi-a?”

A small, timid voice just outside cries out. “Unnie!”

Hyun-ju turns so fast, she’s practically a blur. She bolts past the door as the timer begins to count down, just three seconds from zero, only to be brutally shoved backwards as another player comes rushing in. He slams the door shut just in time for the lock to click into place while Hyun-ju crashes directly into you.

“Unnie!”

A face appears in the window – a pair of eyes and the tip of a nose, shaded by dark bangs. Young-mi. The younger girl on Hyun-ju’s team. The one with the sweet eyes who always seems to be trailing after her. All this time, you never knew her name. Now it doesn’t even matter.

She’s slamming her fists against the door, screaming Young-mi’s name, and it’s all too familiar because the way Hyun-ju screams reminds you too much of Gi-hun. The way Young-mi’s body slowly slides down the door reminds you too much of the man you helped to kill.

She screams and tears at the door until the shooting stops, and then she turns on the new player – 333 – with a snarl. Her fingers curl around the collar of his jacket, chipped black polish digging into the fabric. “It's your fault!”

333 practically spits at her. “Don't kid yourself. If I hadn't come in, you'd be dead too.”

“No!” she screams, and you’ve never seen someone so contorted with rage. Not even Gi-hun. “It's your fault! I could have saved her!”

“There was no time!” 333 grabs her by the wrists and pulls until he’s free, then shoves her hands aside. He has no care for the sorrow that carves itself into Hyun-ju’s face and shatters her spirit. He isn’t even being gentle about it. “The moment you went out to save her, you'd have died along with everyone else here for not having enough people!”

He turns on the rest of you then with a shout, even as Hyun-ju cowers in the corner, shaking and sobbing. “I saved your lives! All of you!”

No one says a thing because what is there to say? That you’re glad you’re alive and it’s a real shame that Young-mi is dead? That he’s right? That he’s wrong?

“Isn't that right?” he demands. “Am I wrong?! Well, say something!”

You don’t have anything to say. 333 did what you might have done and Young-mi paid the price for it. There is no consolation, no candied words to soothe a broken heart. There’s no way to turn back the clock and bring her back to life. But, you think, there is the chance to atone for your almost-mistake by offering Hyun-ju the kindness she needs.

You shoulder past 333 without sparing him even a passing glance and you throw your arms around her quivering shoulders. She falls into you without pause, sobbing into your shirt as you lightly pat her on the back.

It’s not okay. It’s not right. You can’t bring Young-mi back and you can’t fix this, but in this moment at least you’re not a monster. At least you’re not the killer this time.